


Green Collar

by avyssoseleison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (No Stuffing), Aftercare, Bathing/Washing, Begging, Body Worship, Boss Castiel, Charlie is Dean's Sister, Chubby Dean, Collars, Comeplay, Consensual Possession, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean Has Self-Esteem Issues, Dom Castiel, Dom/sub, Enthusiastic Consent, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Explicit Sexual Content, Feeding Kink, Gentle Dom Castiel, Jody is Dean's mom, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Marking, Masturbation, Past Bad Doms, Past Bad Experiences With BDSM (Dean), Personal Assistant Dean, Post-Coital Cuddling, Praise Kink, Rimming, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sexual and Non-Sexual Submission, Slurs, Spanking, Sub Dean, Sub Drop, many kinks to be added, minor food/weight issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-04-26 18:38:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 72,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5015800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avyssoseleison/pseuds/avyssoseleison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's initiation into the BDSM scene was of the worst possible kind: with way too many abusive and selfish Doms who took advantage of the then young man. He left the scene for his own good and vowed to himself to never return, and kept to it. But many years later, when he starts at Sandover as a personal assistant for Castiel Novak, who is demanding and kind and carries himself with a natural dominance, he finds himself drawn to his boss and to being a sub once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> As it already says in the tags above, there will be many kinks added with the course of the story. There are some that will definitely included in the story but have not have happened as of yet (that is, by chapter 9, which is when I started putting this on ao3) and there are some that I will definitely *not* include but that might be briefly discussed and then discarded. If you want any further information on what will/won't appear in the story, feel free to contact me via tumblr or leave a comment here.
> 
> This is A Terrible Life Verse, but Charlie is the one who's Dean's sister in here and Jody is his mom. Bobby is, as usual, his dad. Jo and Ellen own the Roadhouse, in case you're wondering where they are or read the original parts on my blog and were confused. :)
> 
> [Here](http://avyssoseleison.tumblr.com/tagged/green-collar-verse) is where you can find this verse on my blog.

 

Even though it feels like it is, this isn't his first rodeo.

After all, he has already had his first brush with the Scene less than a decade ago. Had dived head-first into it all, into the harsh hands and even harsher words, not coming up for air for what felt like years, but couldn't have been more than a few intoxicated months.

His plunge wasn't into the safe, sane, consensual part of the Scene, though. Rather, his experiences were limited to the less favorable side of it, particularly so to careless Doms who thought that just because their relationship with him wasn't a _real_ one and because they only played for fun, maybe a night or two, elementary stuff like really getting to know Dean and his needs and triggers and giving him fucking _Aftercare_ were not that important. That Dean himself wasn't that important, either.

And at first, Dean often enough rode a high during the scenes, enjoyed being dominated and being made to feel useful, that he didn't bother or dare question what happened to him. What were a few tears of untended to pain or a week of shame compared to the feeling of being strung up and worked over so well that whatever else might have come afterwards was just as forgotten as any other worry or pain within him? What use would it have been to struggle or squirm at those few things that he did not enjoy, that made him uncomfortable? He enjoyed it all the same; unless, sometimes, he didn't.

Those times when it wasn't just a matter of being uncomfortable anymore, but scared. Or ashamed. Or in too much pain to walk away from it afterwards, in a literal and metaphorical sense. It was always then, whenever his Doms touched or spoke to him in ways that brought him nothing but aches in any which way, that he dropped after the scene. More and more so. Because whereas those few days of shame and anxiety and pain were something Dean could pull himself through well enough in the beginning, they started piling up. Became worse, and longer. Rendered him incapable of coping with what lied beyond the world of the Scene and with himself. With every Dom that just used him and treated him like a toy that was to be discarded after the scene, after it had served its purpose, a small part of him broke and withered. Because like this, those Doms taught him that he deserved the humiliation he didn’t like and the abandonment right after; making him believe it. Making him internalize it.

Until after too long a time, Dean finally left the scene.

After all, what good did it do to get his rocks off in the way he liked (or maybe didn't), if it interfered too much with his life, rendered him unable to trust people he hadn’t known for ages and even those he did, wore him down enough that he was unable to form any new relationships, and it made it almost impossible to keep working at his office, without breaking down in the middle of the day, shaking and sobbing, scaring himself and everyone else.

Flash forward a few years.

His hard work at his father Bobby’s office has finally paid off, and he has begun working at Sandover, claiming the position of a personal assistant to Castiel Novak, who is rumored to become CEO within the next five to ten years. As of now, Dean is under his direct command and sees him from early in the morning until late at night, if Novak attends some last-minute meetings or networking drinks again. Even though Dean was afraid he’d hate working somewhere that’s not Bobby’s, he has actually soon started to love his job and considers it to be demanding yet rewarding.

Although, maybe, the “demanding yet rewarding” part doesn’t stem so much from the job itself, but his boss; because Novak asks a lot of him, making it clear why so many former assistants quit after less than a month. But he never fails to reward Dean for his hard work, making it worth it. He does so sometimes with something as simple as a smile or a proud nod, often enough also with a “Thank you, Dean” or a “Well done, Dean”, or even a “That was excellent work, Dean”.

Regardless of whichever small way Novak chooses to reward him for his efforts, it is always accompanied by warm feeling spreading in Dean’s tummy. It has him smile and puff up his chest a little bit, because if _Castiel fucking Novak_ says that his work was good, then it must have been good. _He_ must have been good.

And that thought is one that is as exhilarating as much as it is dangerous. Because Dean knows that feeling, knows deep in his guts where it stems from and what it plays right into: into that side he hoped long buried, that part of his personality that he wants to deny. Not even because he is ashamed of it, not necessarily, but because it’s playing with fire to even think back on his time in the Scene. Worse yet, not to think of the Scene, but to consider where he is _right now,_ what he has learned, about the world and himself, who he is with, who is the one to reward him with kind words these days. Which is Novak, his direct superior, the up-and-coming star of Sandover.

Which, really, makes his praise only all the sweeter.

And Dean has no doubt that, far from offices and appointments, Novak would take care of him even better than this, with more than just a simple nod and a kind word. But with experienced touches all over his body, with a flood of praise, with a feeling of safety that would last, that would allow Dean to truly lose himself in the scene, that would assure him that even afterwards, he would be taken care of, not abandoned, but adored.

…that is, in Dean's fantasies. In his dirty little daydreams about his boss. Because really, that Novak would be like that, an attentive, dominant lover, is not a thing he could know (except he thinks he does), but more than that, it’s not a thing he will ever get to experience. Because he left the Scene; because someone like Castiel Novak would have no business to be interested in the likes of him. He is nothing but his personal assistant now, a nobody. And even back then, he was nothing but a weak little sub that couldn’t truly like what was being done to him, and yet didn’t even speak up against it, only completely turned tail once it became too much, with trembling hands and a longing heart.

So yeah, not happening. Dean knows it won’t, keeps reminding himself of all these reasons as for why, and goes on about his work. Because he won’t lose another job to this kind of stuff, be it breakdowns or fantasies. He’s got both feet planted on the ground these days, in his budding career, and that’s the only thing that should be on his mind right now. The only thing that matters. Also, it’s not like that side of himself didn’t get catered to, in a softcore version, with all those nice things Novak does or says in return, already giving him much more than he ever received or deserved, so whatever.

Until things shift.

One night, both Novak and him happen to have to stay late in the office, feverishly working through the accounts of a deal that is crucial for all of Sandover, but that a few guys from another department thoroughly _messed up._ The work of this nightis just the climax to a whole week of trying to save the deal, and by the time they are finally done, Novak and Dean are at the end of their ropes, with eyelids that drop despite the dozens of cups of coffee coursing through their blood stream and the adrenaline chasing right after the caffeine.

The first light of the next day is already starting to peek into Novak’s office and brushes over both their heads when Novak signs the last paper and, with a thump and a sigh, they close the last folder.

After that, they do nothing but sit in silence for a few moments, first having to process their achy, tired bodies and that _Yes, they did it,_ and then they search for each other gazes with dry eyes. And once their eyes meet, they stare at each other, smile at each other, _laugh_ at each other in utter relief. Because they did it! They saved the deal!

They ride the wave of relief by laughing seemingly endlessly, by swaying into each other’s space just so, just more than enough, clutching their bellies and letting go of all the tension and anxiety that had put them on edge the whole week, not fighting against the tears driven into their eyes by laughter.

And oh, it’s so dangerous when Dean allows himself the ecstasy, the knowledge of a job well done, of having been _good_ again. Because for a moment, he forgets that he should hold back, that he should not give in to how he wants to sway even closer to Novak and just enjoy that the reward of a little something right now. Like the glimmer in Novak’s eyes and the gummy smile and especially not the hand that Novak lifts slowly between the two of them, with which he brushes over Dean’s cheek, in what is much too personal for a boss and an assistant and yet not personal enough for someone so devoid of and starving for touch and approval by this very man.

And the feeling of the hand on his cheek turns into something even worse when it’s not followed up by another touch or a kiss or by a body pressed against his, nothing of the standard deviation between personal assistant and boss. But it's accompanied by a soft smile, some private and small, something that’s between just the two of them and is only meant for Dean, was _earned_ by him, as well as by an entirely too honest, dangerous, _craved-for_ admission of, “I never could have done this without you, Dean.”

And within the breath it takes for Novak to say his name, Dean knows he is utterly, irrevocably done for.

 

 


	2. II

When Dean enters his small office one week later – after a couple of uneventful days in which people of all departments congratulated and clapped him on the shoulder for the closed deal, and as many days of Novak acting as usual and with no indication of him possibly knowing just what he’s _doing_ to his assistant –, he finds a present on his desk.

And stops short.

Although the package is only small and not wrapped up in flashy paper, it’s anything but unassuming; its position right in the middle of the desk is clearly meant to draw Dean’s attention, no, _demands_ it, yet it still does not appear as a threat, but as a deep green anchor atop the oak and beside the neat stacks of papers.

Dean lingers for a few moments, needing to process that he’s not just dreaming this, but that there’s actually a present for _him_ right there, waiting on him. That the neat edges of the wrapping paper and whatever small thing inside are for him to unpack, reveal, and were probably waiting on him to do so.

So he does. With unsteady fingers and a pounding heart and an overwhelming sense of foreboding that he can’t quite put into words, one that didn’t just start as soon as he laid eyes on his present nor that night a week before, but probably many months ago, when he started at Sandover, when for the first time, Novak shook his hand with a firm grip, a satisfied smile and a steady, seeing eye.

It’s easy to slide the gift free of its paper, the edges too neat and the paper too thick to be ripped even by Dean’s clumsy hands. And what the paper reveals is a small blue box and a loose white piece of paper, written on with the type of messy handwriting he has become well acquainted with within the last few months of his work.

Dean swallows as he lifts the paper to his eyes, to take a proper look at it, to read the scrawl of a message.

_A reward for how well you did. –C. N._

Dean’s breathing, his whole world, stops for the span of a few seconds.

And despite the jolt of curiosity and something else, that base desire to receive a reward meant for him, he needs a few moments to recompose himself, to rein in the trembling of his hands and the flutter of his heart. And only then, when he has braced himself, his whole mind awash with that foreboding, that Dean opens the box, inside of which lies, in a colour as deep and luscious as the paper it was wrapped in was, a moss green necktie. Yes, moss green and beautiful and with little little golden elements stitched into it, barely visible to the naked eye and only clear to Dean thanks to the light that falls on the necktie, making the golden symbols that look like crescents stand out.

It’s easily the softest piece of clothing Dean has ever run the tips of his fingers over, easily the most valuable thing he has ever touched. There’s no label on it, nothing to suggest that it was bought in a store, however upscale a shop would have to be to even offer something as beautiful and precious as this. But it’s also impossible that this was bought at a lesser store or even second-hand, so it–

Dean almost drops the necktie with how the urgent tremor that seizes his hands as soon as he realizes what this, the lack of a label has to mean; because he works will all kinds of people, with the richest of the rich, with those who would never buy anything worn by anyone else, with those that only accept what was not meant for them and to appease them, with those that would scoff at Armani, Gucci and the like because they can do _better._ Because they can do _custom-made._ And that’s exactly what this is: _custom-made._

It’s inconceivable, but the only possible truth. Every thread of this necktie was dyed and woven just for Dean, was made with him in mind, with the idea of him behind it, only brought into existence because it was meant for him, and that makes it something that belongs entirely to Dean, something _special_ and _unique,_ an object and symbol at the same time, and indeed not just a small gift for good work, a thoughtless present bought at a store or taken from a drawer, but an honest _Reward._

His whole body is in shivers when he the threads of it stroke over the fabric of his dress shirt, when he pulls and puts on because–

What’s more–

 _What’s more,_ it sits snugly around his neck, fits seamlessly and perfectly, heavy with implications and with meaning, because although the weight of it is different from what he remembers, lighter than leather and finer than cheap silk and not adorned by studs that were meant to hurt much more than protect, Dean knows what it is, knows as much as he instantly knew what Novak was to him, because this one thing, he knows: he would recognize a collar anywhere.


	3. III

It doesn’t take more than five minutes until Dean has to step into Novak’s office, of course, as he will have to present him with the schedule of the day and give him a short overview of what will be to come next week. Novak ignores him for a few minutes, first finishes the email Dean knows to be going to the CEO, and only once he has done so, does he turn towards Dean, eyes unerringly on his, his hands and expression open, his undivided attention on him.

Whether aware of it or not, Novak even gives him a once-over, his gaze sweeping up Dean’s form, only to come to a rest on his throat. Dean might imagine it, but it seems like one corner of Novak’s mouth quirks up just so.

“I see you have found your present.”

“Yea- yes. Thank you, sir.” He swallows. “I like it a lot.”

Novak smiles at him, fully this time, and in what could be interpreted as fondness. “I hope you don’t just say that because you feel pressured to. If you don’t want to accept it, for whatever reason, Dean,” his voice dips low there, almost falling into a whisper, into something private, “then you don’t have to. I won’t feel offended, or be angry or be,” he pauses for just a second, “disappointed.”

And there it is.

“N-No,” Dean stutters, and he can feel the heat creeping up his neck and into his face, probably painting his skin pink. Because they are on the same page right now, Dean is sure of that; no one would assume a boss of Novak’s rank to be _disappointed,_ of all things, if one of his shabby employees couldn’t properly appreciate his fine present. It wouldn’t make sense. A sub who would reject a Dom might fear that though, might be more afraid to hurt and disappoint than to invoke anger. “I honestly do like it. It, uhm, it feels nice. Really nice.” _Like it belongs there, right around Dean’s neck._

“I’m glad,” Novak says, and he doesn’t sound as dangerously low now anymore, but more like himself. Business-like, maybe, but still not as much as usually. He’s obviously not quite done yet, because he continues in that tone that’s seriousness clad in a fake casual tone. “Which reminds me. You probably know better than I do that I have no further responsibilities this evening, that I can leave early. Unless you are here to bear bad news, that is.” They exchange tired little smiles at his joke, and the humanity of it is grounding. “If you don’t mind me asking, I was wondering whether you will be free as well, and if so, whether you would like to accompany me for dinner tonight.”

“Dinner, sir?” Dean hates how weak his voice sounds as he asks to make sure, but he has to question this; Novak couldn’t possibly have asked him out for dinner right now, could he? At that, all while drawing a clear border between the business they don’t have to take care of and their free personal time, making sure it is to be understood as not a business dinner, like one of the many they already had, but something else. Something not necessary, but needed. Something closer.

Novak studies him where his squirms, and Dean can feel his eyes taking him in, assessing all of him, and instead of feeling uncomfortable, it feels natural. It settles a calm over Dean that he had lost when he first saw the present, nervosity and insecurity and maybe even a bit of fear, but none of that remains now, in Novak’s presence and under his steady gaze.

Dean stands up that bit straighter and just barely fights against the urge to clasp his hands together on his back.

“If you have any other plans on this Friday evening, I would understand, naturally. Please, don’t feel obligated to cancel any dates because of a whim of mine. We can simply meet another time, if you would like, Dean.” ‘Another time’ being the code for ‘never’, of course, seeing as Novak is giving him an out and a polite way of saying ‘fuck off and leave me poor bastard alone’. It’s a good sign, Dean knows, a negotiation already, and Dean wants more, wants their negotiations to include other borders and wants, wants them to run deeper, as deep as they can.

So “I’m free. Absolutely no plans,” Dean says with a smile that must look far more confident than he feels, and seems to suffice in convincing Novak. Of that Dean wants to meet him tonight, that he is not cowed and not accepting with resentment.

“Very well,” Novak says, and there’s something in how he speaks that sounds much like relief, and that could be elation in another lifetime. “Are you fine with the burger restaurant that we frequent?”

Dean laughs a bit at that, a bit of the remaining tension leaving his body. “Yeah, of course.” Because the Roadhouse is one of his favourite places to eat, and he knows that despite his serious frown and the harsh tone he can adapt, Novak enjoys nothing more than a good hearty burger. Both know not only the food there, but also the people, the whole atmosphere. It’s immediately a nice thing to look forward to, no matter how strange Novak’s request is. Because surely, he can’t ask him out to talk about – _that,_ right? Although Dean has no doubts about what Novak is, maybe he is only a perfect Dominant by nature. Maybe he is not even aware of what he is doing, he just naturally falls into a very favourable pattern.

Dean notices the patient gaze on him, one that must have been resting on him for however long his little inner monologue has lasted. But Novak doesn’t seem annoyed or anything, just as relaxed as before. Still, he gently leads Dean back towards what he originally came for when he asks, “So, what are my appointments for the day?”


	4. IV

It’s not quite a restaurant, but also not a simple fast food joint. Novak and him have begun frequenting the Roadhouse after Novak’s elder (but decidedly smaller) brother Gabriel Novak had come by and brought along mischief and the best burgers either Novak or Dean have ever tasted. Actually, Gabriel’s take-out had only been meant for Novak, but as soon as his boss had had his first bite and probably seen the face of God, he used the intercom to call Dean into his office and handed him the rest of his burger to have a taste, too. Apparently, he would have thought it would have been a crime not to share something as good as this with Dean – and also, Novak wanted him to make a reservation for his next lunch at the place from where the burgers were.

(Of course, you can’t make reservations at the Roadhouse, which Dean found out after making Jo, their by now usual waitress, laugh loudly when asking for one. So, Novak and Dean have taken to setting their appointments to end half an hour before the big lunch rush around noon begins, so that they may hastily make their way to the Roadhouse before all the tables are already taken.)

Therefore, for Novak to suggest coming here tonight was a bit of a gamble. As Dean steps over the threshold into the Roadhouse, he wonders what would happen if Novak and him won’t find a seat and won’t be willing to wait for one. What would happen if Novak isn’t even there? What if Dean were by himself for the evening, waiting fruitlessly, coming back into the office on Monday, only to be greeted by pitiful blue eyes and no more presents and no more smiles and no more touches?

“Hello, Dean!” Jo greets him with a big grin while sauntering out from behind the counter. Dean feels himself lose a bit of the tension with which he knows he must have been carrying himself ever since he left the office – at least one friendly face. 

“Hey, Jo,” he smiles despite his nerves. “Uhm, did–”

“If you’re looking for Novak, he’s at your usual table.” She makes a small, unnecessary head movement towards where Dean knows their usual table to be. While she does, she lifts both her eyebrows and her grin takes on a cheekier, maybe more suggestive note. “He’s been sitting there for over two hours already, and whenever I asked him if he wants to pay, he orders something new to drink.”

Dean rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “What– uh, two hours?”

“Yep,” she confirms, popping the ‘p’. “I guess he’ll finally start ordering properly now, too, hmm?”

Dean feels the heat creeping over his neck and under the cuffs of his dress shirt. “I guess so. We’re meeting for dinner.”

“More like ‘going out for dinner’, I’d say.” She looks like the cheshire cat, and for a moment, Dean wonders how often Novak and him must have really come to this place and greedily gulped down their burgers, for her to act as familiar as she does. But he doesn’t even mind; in fact, he’s quite happy that he’s allowed to be a bit too familiar in return.

So he grumbles, “Shut up, Jo.”

She just laughs and winks, knowing she came out on top, and steps away from the counter to accompany Dean on the short way towards his table. There, as promised, Novak already sits.

He looks like he usually does, albeit maybe a bit more kempt than when Dean saw him a couple of hours before. Even though they had been seeing each other occasionally throughout the day and even had a small meeting where they talked shop about another upcoming deal that Novak wants to do with Dean, they didn’t finish work at the same time. As both knew already, Novak had a short day today, and Dean, as a proper personal assistant, had to stay longer and still organize whatever there was to organize before the weekend. So, he came straight from Sandover to the Roadhouse, only having had the chance to freshen himself up a little in the company’s bathroom. Novak, though, looks like he’s come straight out of a shower or beauty parlor or fashion magazine. 

Perfect, basically.

A wave of embarrassment washes over Dean. He must make an unappealing picture, in his probably sweaty smelling dress shirt and with dark circles under his eyes and with all of his clothing and hair rumpled and ready to be washed. His only saving grace is the beautiful green tie around his neck, and that’s only because it has been given to him, because something as beautiful and valuable came from the very man Dean is meeting. Dean couldn’t ever possess something like that by himself.

As if he could sense them, Novak looks up from his tablet before Jo and Dean properly approach him, and with every step towards his table, the tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth seems to grow. Dean can’t help but smile in return, relieved that he’s not being stood up, happy to see Novak at all, pleased that he is able to make him smile.

“Good evening, Dean,” he greets, voice deep and warm. Without shame, his gaze sweeps over Dean’s face, taking it in almost uncomfortably, then down towards his neck, (suddenly, the necktie feels a bit too tight and like maybe it could stand to be even tighter, could be tied around Dean someplace else), and then Novak appraises the whole of Dean’s body, his rumpled figure and the hands around the handle of his messenger back and the dark slacks that Dean prays to hide how much he preens under the undivided attention and the warm rush that comes along with it. By the time Novak is done, Dean is flushed and feels warm, but strangely enough, not from embarrassment anymore.

“Good evening, Mr. Novak,” Dean obediently croaks back, probably more than a beat too slow, and at his side, Jo giggles. Dean makes an attempt for glare at her for it, but she looks far from being cowed.

“Are you ready to order now?” she asks instead.

“Yes,” Novak says, his eyes only flitting towards her before settling on Dean again. “I’ll have the usual. Dean?”

“I, uh,” he stammers. Does he want the usual, too? Well, of course he does; his usual is a bacon cheese burger that is nothing short of divine, dripping in grease and being all the sweeter for it, but… he shouldn’t eat that kind of thing in the evening. He usually keeps a strict diet, only indulges himself whenever Novak and him go to the Roadhouse. Otherwise, he sticks to salad and, especially in the evening, to proteins. His tummy is already soft despite his regimen, his thighs and butt too meaty for someone who should always look and act his best on his job, and all in all, he should take even better care of himself. Also, should Novak really have wanted to meet him for– _something else,_ something _more_ maybe, Dean would _want_ to act and look his best, too. This evening and afterwards. A burger wouldn’t really help with that.

“Dean?” Jo implores, and she sounds a bit impatient already.

But when Dean looks towards Novak, he doesn’t look impatient at all; he’s still smiling just so, his whole posture relaxed and open, as if he wouldn’t mind waiting for Dean doing something as dumb as ordering his damn food the whole night, as if it’s completely natural for such a simple decision to take forever. It relaxes Dean, too, knowing that Novak wouldn’t belittle him for something like this, making him realize that he hasn’t ever belittled him. (And Dean has been belittled so often already, has been told to take it and suck it up so many times in the past, has made decisions on the spur, without consideration for the decision itself or with consideration from his partners for him, only because they wanted him to, urged him to. And Novak… remains serene, just sits there and keeps his attention on him, waits as if they had all the time in the world.)

Dean breathes out, lets go of the bad images that threaten to surface, and simply says, “I’ll have the usual, too.”

And maybe he imagines it, but when Dean slips behind the small partition to take seat on his somewhat creaky wooden chair he has gotten so used to, he thinks he sees a flash of teeth and gums from in front of him, (a crescent, his mind supplies him with), already gone when Novak puts his tablet and empty glass to the side and leans forward.


	5. V

“You look lovely, Dean,” Novak rumbles out without any forewarning as soon as Dean has taken a seat.

The suddenness of it and the way it’s delivered with an open expression makes the blood shoot right into Dean’s head, tints his cheeks and the tips of his ears pink and warms his lips. “Uh, thank you,” Dean mutters. There’s a tingle inside his stomach and down his neck, but he’s not quite sure whether it’s because he’s flattered or embarrassed, because he knows that he looks far from lovely right now. He looks exhausted, yes, and way too excited, maybe even a bit needy, but _lovely?_ No, no way. Still, he won’t call Novak out on niceties – he’s not a child, after all, and won’t get angry when someone valiantly tries to be kind. Even if the words ring untrue. “You look good, too. Really refreshed and, um, good.”

Novak smiles and, terribly enough, it’s the same smile he always graces Dean with whenever he’s done something especially well. Sometimes, that smile is accompanied by praise or a fleeting touch, something to sweeten it and the finished work behind it even more. More than that, the smile looks honest. As if Dean’s clumsy compliment and company were something to actually be happy about.

“Thank you as well, Dean,” Novak says, and for a moment, Dean wonders if Novak will give him another compliment in return, just one more nicety, and he dreads and craves it in equal measure. But then Jo comes strolling back to their table, bringing them their usual drinks – some gross, syrupy juice for Novak and a water with a slice of lemon in it for Dean (because even if he already splurges on burgers, he doesn’t need to make it even worse by drinking alcohol or something sweet). She informs them that their burgers will be ready in twenty minutes tops, then she raises an eyebrow at a probably still blushing Dean and leaves them to their business.

“Didn’t you like the rhubarb spritzer I ordered last time so much when you tried it?” Novak asks as he is looking at Dean’s lemon water, and yeah, Dean might have liked it so much that he had been lapping at his lips for an eternity afterwards and even considered asking Novak for one more sip. But he had some dignity left, and that excluded showing his boss how thirsty he was – for his drink.

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean agrees half-heartedly. He doesn’t want to face the inevitable question of ‘Then why won’t you order it right now?’ because then, he would have to find a way around the truth, which could be either the truth he keeps telling himself (’Because I don’t want to get even thicker’) or the absolute truth he prays no one would get behind (’Because a burger is already more than what I deserve’).

But Novak just looks at him, silently, in that way that makes Dean feel vulnerable and transparent – as if his biggest fear, his biggest shame, was laid open. As if he could see the actual truth, hidden behind excuses and hard work and many smiles. And yet, Dean feels, that if there is one person who he could probably trust with scratching him open and laying him bare, with looking behind all of Dean’s bullshit and actually dealing with it, it would probably be Novak.

“I see,” Novak simply says, neutrally and in a way that suggests that the topic is now politely dropped with this. It should appear dismissive, but with how sharply his gaze still remains on Dean, all his attention focused on him and ready to take in every word Dean might utter, it feels much more likely that Novak has understood Dean or come to his own conclusion about his senseless behaviour, has filed it away in a mental folder with Dean’s name written on it.

Novak’s eye linger on Dean’s neck tie once more, and when he blinks up, his expression is serious.

For a second there, Dean wonders if maybe Novak has truly seen through him and his bullshit and his lemon water and decided to send him home, after all. That maybe time spent alone with two burgers is still better spent than with some self-deprecating, chubby loser. But what actually comes out of Novak’s mouth once he opens it again is pretty much the opposite from what Dean expects

“Apart from this, there is something else I wanted to talk about. To clarify. Because I want both of us to be on the same page right away, which is why I want to reaffirm that, to me, this is meant as a private meet-up, not a business meeting.”

“Uh, yeah, yes, same here. That’s what I came here for, too.”

Novak’s gaze keeps resting patiently on Dean. “A date, if you so will.”

And there goes the pink again, staining Dean’s cheeks. “Yes.”

A small smile blooms over Novak’s lips and reaches his eyes, softens them. “Good. That’s why I would like you to call you by my first name. I’m not your boss, Mr. Novak, right now – just Castiel.”

Dean smiles back, a genuine warmth relaxing him, making all those doubts and questions that plagued him throughout the day slowly melt away. It’s surprisingly easy like this, to take a sip of his drink and roll that name around in his head first, then over his tongue, testing it out. “Castiel,” he says, and both smile. “Well, I guess you already call me by my first name, but yeah, Dean.” He laughs weakly at himself.

“Indeed, Dean.” Castiel’s smile widens even more, and something else creeps into his features, something darker and no less familiar than the soft voice with which he has spoken to Dean until now. “I’m glad that that’s settled now, because I also have another matter I would like to discuss with you. Not that this would be unrelated, because it actually ties in with making sure we are here on private terms.” Castiel’s upper lip curls up. Dean puts his glass to his lips and lifts an eyebrow, questioning. “As I meant to ask you whether you would be agreeable to allowing me to take you on as my submissive and to dominate you on a regular basis.”

Dean almost chokes on his lemon water and starts coughing. _“What?”_

Castiel is all patience and no confusion, though even Dean can see his feverish insistence, the slight glaze to his eyes that shows he’s reining himself in. “I asked to dominate you.”

“Ye-yeah, yes, no, I got that. That’s why I asked _what?”_

Castiel tilts his head to the side, a gesture Dean has come to read as him having to consider and rethink. “I did not read you incorrectly, did I, Dean?” His gaze searches Dean’s eyes and his features, assessing him anew, with even more intensity than he’s already doing all the time, and with a squint. Dean wants to hide from it, so he stares at his glass instead and coughs out the last of his drink. “That you are familiar with the BDSM scene, understand the terms of what I just proposed, and are a submissive, at that?”

What the hell. “Ye- yes.”

“Yes to what?”

“To– all three of them, okay?” He tries to sound defiant, not as embarrassed at he feels. Of course, he had an inkling – or maybe more than that, an idea and a feeling of hope – about Castiel, about his behaviour and about how perfectly it worked with Dean. It couldn’t possibly been all coincidence, but it’s still weird and a bit alarming how obvious Dean must be in his submissiveness for Castiel to sound so assured that his first question wasn’t even _Are you submissive?_ but _Would you be my submissive?_

Castiel scrutinizes him with a frown. “I apologize if I have made you uncomfortable; that wasn’t my intention. I simply prefer to be truthful and straightforward about what I want, especially if I believe that my wishes could be reciprocated.” He is silent for a moment. “Especially if I wish for something – _someone_ – that strongly.”

_Jesus._

“And as you just confirmed that you are as knowledgeable about the scene as I thought you were and still chose to accept my gift.” The necktie sits snug and burning around Dean’s neck, and Dean catches Castiel glancing meaningfully at it, and he just hopes that Castiel isn’t looking there too intently, that he won’t see the heavy bob of his Adam’s apple. “I felt even more encouraged to ask. You surely know well enough that honesty and communication are the key to any relationship, but even more so when it comes to the BDSM community. That is why I wanted to be honest.”

“Yeah, but.” It feels like Dean’s skin might burn off his neck and cheeks and chest at any given moment. “You still can’t just spring this on someone. Can’t just ask if you could,” he looks around for anyone to overhear, but as the coast is clear, he leans forward and dips his voice into a whisper, “if you could dominate and fuck them.”

Castiel furrows his brow. “I never asked for the latter. I would assume for you to know that those two can be very much exclusive from one another, unless they are strictly connected for you or if your experiences or expectations… may differ.” Of course, Castiel is too polite to put Dean’s knowledgeability into question after all, but the assumption still hangs in the room.

It’s a bit insulting, so Dean can’t help the beginnings of a pout both around his lips and in his voice. “No, I am more than aware that there can be a difference between sex and BDSM.”

Castiel nods, and it’s almost too proud again. “But your wording sounds as if there isn’t for you? Do you reject either or both? Are you asexual? If so, my request would be in no way changed; with or without sex, it would be an honour to dominate you.”

Alright, now he’s going a bit far. “No, I’m not asexual. Far from it. My point was,” he takes a deep breath and looks around again, “that this came kinda out of the blue.“

One of Castiel’s brow curls, and before he even opens his mouth, Dean knows he is about to disagree. “Did it?”

Dean makes a soft noise that is neither agreement nor disagreement and shrugs with his shoulders. It came out of the blue when speaking in terms of timing during the conversation, not generally because of– _them._ What is mostly surprising is that Castiel actually acted on what’s between them, that he talks so openly and at all about it now. Yeah, that’s what’s out of the blue – let alone the almost awe with which Castiel talks about the possibility of taking Dean on as a sub. But apart from that: anyone with eyes and a bit of sense for that kind of dynamics could identify them as naturally dominant and submissive from miles away.

“You must know that I have observed you for quite some time before I came to the conclusion that you are not just submissive by nature, but are also well aware of the Scene. I wouldn’t have approached you in this way otherwise. I thought you could assume why I asked you out tonight, that you too had seen that we work well together, that our dynamics are exceptional, profound. How you react to me,” his eyes darken and blink down to Dean’s necktie and up to his eyes again, his whole demeanour oscillating somewhere between assertive and assuming, but mostly wanting, “to every word and touch, so _perfectly.”_ He breathes out the last word. “You must believe me that I didn’t intentionally– try to instigate this, far from it. There can be no proper power exchange if the power is already unbalanced beforehand, considering our positions, making this a matter of whether it could possibly be consensual, let alone sane. Yet, I couldn’t help but be drawn to you, to the way you hold yourself, your strength and ingenuity and relentlessness, to your beauty, to how you actually allow me to see past that and how you surrender all of this with a word of praise or a single touch.”

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment and presses his lips against each other, in what looks like a moment of grappling for calm, because this – this is just embarrassing, for both of them. Though whereas Castiel looks like he is trying to rein himself him in order not to overstep any unspoken boundaries and speak out of line, Dean stiffens his lips and posture to hold off the heat and delight and incredulity. Because Castiel sounds like he has actually thought about this, about _him,_ a lot. It’s actually rather flattering that Dean got someone like Castiel so riled up, just by – by being how and who he is, basically.

Dean wonders if Castiel might be the one to be asexual, though his words didn’t make it sound like he is, and Dean hopes he’s right about that; because he wouldn’t mind having all those way too kind words whispered into his ear while he’s being fucked hard by him. Because not believing all that praise doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy hearing it.

Dean sinks his teeth deep into his lower lip and his hands instinctively reach for the necktie, stroke all the way from the knot down to the tip. Castiel follows the motion with his eyes and with a completely still body. “So then you thought, ‘If you like it, then you should put a collar on it’?” Dean asks, lips tilted into a small smirk, a secret, pleased thing.

Castiel mirrors his smirk, confidence and delight flaring in his gaze, whispers “Perhaps”, and he places one of his hands on top of the table, moves it slowly and sinuously forward, reaching the middle and then reaching further and–

“Who put a collar on what? Novak, you got a dog?” Jo’s voice is like a bucket of cold water suddenly spilling over them, running shock through Dean’s bones and making Castiel pull his hand back with a face that Jo doesn’t see but that makes Dean want to bend over the table and let Castiel spank his ass until he’s pleased with the world again.

The plates clatter as Jo, carelessly as always, puts them down in front of them. “Bacon cheese burger for the boss, avocado chicken for secretary boy.”

Dean glares at her as best as the delicious smell wafting up to him allows him to. “No one’s getting any dog, and shouldn’t you at least try to be a bit polite to your patrons if you want a tip?”

Jo just grins at him. “It’s part of my charm; the men actually tip better if I’m rude to them. Maybe some strange fetish or something, who knows.” She winks, and Dean wonders if she knows, if _everybody_ knows that he likes to have his hands bound and butt spanked and all of his control taken away occasionally. ‘Occasionally’ because he lately hasn’t had the chance – or the guts or the trust – to do it regularly. No, but that’s a dumb thought. Partly. After all, Castiel found him out. “And anyway, you guys here always tip well, and I was never once polite to you.”

“That’s true,” Castiel rumbles, and if Jo knew to read him better, maybe she could see that he’s not in the mood for playing around right now. Not pissed or anything per se, just looking annoyed in that understated way that only people who’ve spent much time with him could see. He obviously didn’t appreciate her interruption.

“And because of that, you’ll never know how much we _usually_ tip. You know, in other restaurants where the service is as good as the food.”

Jo gives a sniff at that. “Nah, I think you’re just like the other guys. With some strange fetish. And you know my mom won’t let you come here again if you didn’t tip me. And to allow that to happen, you’re too addicted to our burgers.”

Her smirk is all smugness and self-confidence, and Dean can’t say she isn’t right, that she doesn’t have them by the balls with their burgers. Among other things. Because despite being a little brat sometimes, Jo has got a quick wit and a sharp tongue and Dean finds himself having fun arguing with her, and he genuinely likes spending time at the Roadhouse. Which also means that Dean has to defend both Castiel and his honour by sassing her in return. But right as he is about to try to come up with a comeback, Castiel cuts in.

“As much as that is true, Dean and I were actually in the middle of an important conversation that we would like to resume. It’s a rather private matter that we wanted to discuss in a familiar, comfortable environment, which is why we came here, but that we would still like privacy for.” He smiles kindly at her, in an obvious attempt to show that his words are not supposed to mean _Please, fuck off_ but _Please, give us some space._

Jo raises an eyebrow at him.

“I’ll make sure no one will bug you,” she says neutrally and while including herself, by the looks of it.

“Thank you,” Castiel replies, and it sounds a bit relieved.

“If you want anything, just holler. You know where to find me.”

“Yes.”

“Well then, enjoy your meal.” She shares one last look with Dean, and Dean is glad that she doesn’t have the chance to grab him, drag him into the backroom and ask him all of the questions that she obviously wants to ask. Because instead, all she can do is take her note pad and pen in hand and strut off.

As soon as she is out of earshot, Castiel turns back towards Dean.

“We will have to remember to give her a tip of at least thirty percent.”

Dean laughs weakly. “Yeah, otherwise, we can kiss the Roadhouse goodbye. You’re lucky Jo’s a good sport and that Ellen wasn’t around to hear you dismiss her just like that.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “But I chose this place for a reason; as I said, I meant to have you feel comfortable and safe and free in your decisions. I didn’t factor in that there might be an issue with privacy, after all.”

“Nah, it’s fine. Jo is a big girl and knows not to take things personally. I think.” Dean wrinkles his forehead. “I hope.”

“I’m sure she is,” Castiel assures him and curls his long, elegant fingers around his burger and takes his first bite. He closes his eyes for one blissful moment, but has more manners than to moan around it, so all he does is chew it with the tiniest of smiles and his lashes fluttering.

Dean follows suit and starts on his burger as well. But he has a harder time keeping quiet, and yet, he can’t find it in him to regret his lack of inhibition when all of his pleased sighs and muttered, ‘So good’s seem to ensure that the smile stays on Castiel’s face, even brightens when Dean swallows down his bite along with the beginnings of a moan, and averts his eyes in embarrassment.

Castiel chuckles at that and puts his half-eaten burger down. He takes a sip from his juice thing and eyes Dean leisurely.

“It was partly meant as a collar yes.”

“Mmh?” Dean asks around his mouthful at the non-sequitur.

“The necktie did and does possess connotations of a collar, in a sense.” There’s less heat to the topic now, more of a fondness to what Castiel says and how he looks at him, and it thrills Dean just as much as their almost-touch did. “But more than a collar was it an offer and, most importantly, genuinely a present. You really did deserve a reward for how much you helped me. Without you, I never would have been able to close the deal.” He nods to himself. “Besides, I wouldn’t dare to assume that someone like you would deserve a collar that is made so simple and that has been given without your explicit permission.” He leans forward, and there’s something hungry in his eyes, despite how filling half of his burger must have been. His voice is low and raspy, like a promise that should only ever be uttered between the sheets. “Should I ever be allowed to collar you, I would do so properly and because both of us would want it. Because I would have earned to do so, not because I would have snuck a claim, dressed up as a gift, around your neck.”

Dean is not quite sure whether the hot flush he feels is from embarrassment or whether it stems from the images that are tantalizing him in his head; of him at Castiel’s feet or bowing before him, of Castiel brushing the hair from the back of his neck, of Castiel putting something sturdier though surely no less valuable than the silk around his neck, the leather as gentle and demanding on Dean’s skin as Castiel’s open hands.

 _Now,_ there’s a nice thought.

“But that would presuppose that you accept me as your Dom, of course,” Castiel says with an air of non-chalance of which Dean doesn’t know whether it’s fake or not, but which doesn’t leave much pressure on Dean.

“I guess,” Dean agrees.

Somewhere in the bar, a jukebox comes on. Dean has noticed before that there was a small dancing area in one corner of the tap room, but he’s never given it much thought. There, he assumes the music to come from. He doesn’t recognizes the song – some slow and old rock thing – but it sounds nice enough.

“I don’t expect you to give me an answer right away,” Castiel speaks into the slow tunes mellowing the room. “This is surely something that should be given time and thought to. And to meet you for dinner, come out and say something like this and expect you to either agree or disagree within half an hour of conversation would be foolish.”

Dean nods, as a sign of that he listens and that he agrees. Because yeah, as undeniable as that _something_ between them is, as exciting as the thought of just agreeing and taking Castiel home with him is, it’s not a decision to be made lightly. Because Dean has done so time and time again – chosen Yes when what he meant was Maybe or No, let someone take him apart and not back together again. When he was really young, even worse so and– he presses his lips into a hard line and takes a deep breath. Yes, when he was really young, even worse so. Back then, all he did was experience stuff that might have been consensual, but neither safe nor sane. His life was a rollercoaster of the highs of Scenes and day- of week-long crashes, the high of a night follow by drop after drop after drop.

He can’t afford something like this right now – he’s worked too hard to get as far as he is. He can’t risk his job and all the he built up just because he’s into some weird stuff. But at the same time, he has learnt since back then. He knows now what it is that should be done in a BDSM arrangement, and what not. He’s grown as a person, as a man, and knows his own boundaries and how to demand them being respected. But the problem is, if he dives too deep again, into the Scene and the headspace, will he still be able to do so? To demand himself and his wishes to be respected and adhered to?

Dean looks down at his now empty plate.

That’s why he needs a Dom he can trust, he knows. A good Dom won’t take advantage of his subspace, will let him slide into it and take him through it and gently coax him back out. A good Dom won’t use his absolute surrender of control and need to please against him, but in his favour. A _good_ Dom will make it _good_ for him. Before, during, after. Simple as that. No abuse and no abandonment. Just play. Just good, old-fashioned kink.

“You already have my private phone number,” Castiel says between sips of his sweet drink. Without Dean really taking notice of it, he too has finished his burger by now. “It might be easier if we just agreed that you give me your answer via phone as soon as you reach a decision.” He puts down his glass and smiles soft, almost shakingly. Dean frowns. Does he expect him to reject him?

“I’m fine with that,” Dean says and tries to put as much ‘I am more inclined to go with Yes’ encouragement into the nod that follows. “I’ll, uh, try to be as quick as I can.”

“No, no, please take your time. This is important.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean licks his lips. He almost wants to ask whether there’s only that in there, a purely play-based relationship and whether that’s all Dean will get, but before he can ask, he gets a damn hold of himself. Because it’s quite clear that all they did right now was talk business. BDSM business, that is. There was never any mention or question of anything else, and every reason Castiel has stated for his interest was based on that as well. (Mostly.) That, basically, he picked up on Dean being a sub, found him appealing enough, liked that Dean actually reacted to his antics and thus asked him to play. No more than that,no less. Anything else would be nothing that was on the table at any point in time, and to even state the question would make Dean look so unprofessional, in a sense, amateurish. Worse yet, _needy._ So he keeps his mouth shut and nods instead.

“This won’t influence your job at all, of course,” Castiel promises. “Should you feel uncomfortable working with me after my proposal, please don’t hesitate to tell me. You are very renowned even among the veterans of Sandover and I have no doubt that I could easily make sure you have an even better job under another person’s tutelage. You have made quite a name for yourself, and even without the excellent letter of recommendation I would be happy to write you, there is no doubt in my mind that you could find a new and better position anywhere. Whether at Sandover or anywhere else in the city.”

And there’s the blushing again. Dean doesn’t want to sass Castiel by saying ‘ _Yeah, right’_ and waving him off, but that’s what he really feels like doing. That’s what the truth is – a ‘yeah, right’ to statements like this one. So instead, he settles on “I don’t know”, shrugging his shoulders and trying to take another sip from his glass, although all he gets is the slice of lemon dropping against his lips. Nothing left. Huh.

“Alright,” Castiel says in a voice that, came it from any other person, would be followed by him clapping his hands, to further illustrate how finalizing it is. As it is, it is followed by a nod and a smile by Castiel. “But once you know, please tell me.”

And Dean wants to tell him that that wasn’t what he meant, that whether he thinks well of himself and whether he wants to sub are two completely different kinds of things. That maybe they have influenced one another, made things clearer in hindsight, made them easier, made them more difficult. Instead, he nods back, looks Castiel deep in the eyes and promises, “I will.”

Because _he will_ – and he knows he won’t take long for his decision. Because Castiel’s pleasant smile and the warm food in his belly and the prospect of all those nice things he, deep down, knows he _will_ have, will get from Castiel, make his decision already all the easier. Make him smile and think about those big hands in front of him roaming all over his skin.


	6. VI

He almost sends him his answer that very evening, while his skin is still thrumming with the soft caress goodbye that Castiel gave him, just an easy cupping of his cheek, accompanied by a low and pleasant, “Goodnight, Dean.”

No kiss even, no proposition for them to go to Castiel’s place or his own and have their first test run as play partners, just that simple gentle touch that has left Dean abuzz.

That has him wrap his hand around his already aching cock as soon as he finally dashes in through his apartment door, making it no further than the entrance hall with his pants clumsily shoved down. While his other hand is stroking over his necktie and over his belly, cupping the swell of it just like Castiel has cupped his cheek, because whereas usually, he can’t stand his tummy’s natural bulge and especially not the way it sticks out after a heavy meal, it is now that much more prominent because of the food _Castiel_ has treated him to, insisted on paying as a thanks for accepting his invitation, as a promise of more to come. More caring, more caretaking, more– _fuck._

Dean expels a heavy breath, a broken moan, the grip of his hand tightening around his cock, dripping in its plea for more. In _his_ plead for more, because yeah, that’s what he wants, to accept that promise – for Castiel to take care of him, for him to give him food and touches and for him to take him home one day, where he will finally take Dean apart, into the smallest and most vulnerable pieces of himself, until there is nothing left of him but whimpers and moans and an endless, pleasant haze – just to put him back together again.

He couldn’t trust anyone else to do this, not back then and especially not now, but Castiel, he’s– he can do this. Dean _wants_ him to do this. Be for Dean what Dean needs him to be, because in return, Dean will be _exactly_ what he needs him to be. He will be _so good_ for Castiel, better than he ever was before and better than anyone else was for Castiel before him.

Good. The best.

So that Castiel will always stay with him and take care of him and take his cock in hand just like Dean is doing right now, stroke him just like this, easy, _easy,_ with fingers digging into Dean’s belly, full and straining because of him, the other hand just playing with his dick, hard because of him, offering nothing but easy caresses, making Dean work for it, making him fuck into his fist, just like he is now, moaning and desperate, head thrown back, _begging._

For a moment there, Dean wonders if Castiel will even let him beg. If he will instead stuff his mouth with the necktie he gave to him or his fingers or his cock, or if he will want to listen to his pathetic little pleads instead. Will he enjoy the things Dean wants to ask for? Will he give him what he asks for? Or deny him instead?

But _no._

Because he knows Castiel will give him what he needs, always and exactly – he won’t hurt or disappoint him. He might make him beg, but not to ridicule him for it or cruelly use it against him, unless Dean has asked him to. He will satisfy his every need, just like Dean will satisfy his. Dean will offer him his hole, his mouth, his hands, all of his body, his heart too, anything he wants. If Castiel just will smile at him and fuck him hard, take and give and give and take, truss him up to let him go.

“Ah!”

Dean bucks into his hand, presses himself against the wall of his entrance hall, looking for the firmness that he craves so much, has only received in mind and not in body yet, that he has yet to earn. For now, this wall has to suffice; it has to be where he rubs his cock against, still encased in his fingers, has to be what he presses his cheeks against, and also his tummy, what he drags an open mouth and sloppy lips against, what he ruts against so desperately as he imagines a hard body and blue eyes instead, praising him, cheering him on, holding him and pushing him and–

 _“Oh, oh, oh,”_ Dean breathes into the now spit-slick wallpaper wetter with every pull of his cock, every stripe of warm coming spilling against it now, in rushed pumps and never-ending rutting, with the fantasy of big hands grabbing his ass cheeks and pulling him closer and into it, into the unyielding hardness that he has waited so long for, that he pathetically, hopelessly needs.

He slumps against the wall after, somewhat ashamed and yet not ashamed enough to not give in to his fantasy one more time and to lick his own come off the wall, lick it clean.

*

The next morning, while he is soaking in his tub and studying the blooming bruises adorning his hip bones, reminders of why his wallpaper is now ruined, he is careful not to drop his phone into the water and not to damage it with it while he types with warm and trembling fingers, at last that simple one-word-answer.

(He knows he should think about it some more. That his doubts from before are rightful ones, that there is too much to lose, so much to go wrong. In the past years, he’s had offers as much as he had cravings, but he ignored all of them, shielded himself away where he had failed to do so before, protected himself. An exchange of power is what he had always craved, but what he had actually gotten was a loss of it – of his autonomy and his feeling of safety and a sense of self. To go through it again would shatter him at last, would make it that even his mom or dad or Charlie couldn’t mend him again. He’s well-aware. It’s so much more than just his job on the line.

But maybe– maybe also so much more to gain. What he has lost way back and what he used to longed for even before that, before he was torn to shreds by careless hands and inexperience about his own desires might finally be received. A proper Dom now, after all those ruthless ones, to see to his needs. Those that could never be quelled, no matter his bad experiences. Because maybe this is it. Maybe this is his proper debut. As a sub – as a person with needs that he demands to finally be met.)

It’s barely a minute after sending his confirmation that his phone vibrates in his hands, shaking them up even more, running a shiver through his body. And when he opens the message he got in return for his simple _Yes._ , it’s to find two rows of overjoyed and blushing emoticons and the words, “Then I would be happy to discuss further details with you.”


	7. VII

It takes one painful week for them to meet up again. Though, Dean would have appreciated if there had, in fact, been _some_ sweet pain in there. All he got instead was a whole bunch of boring meetings, endless phonecalls, polite dinners side-by-side with Castiel, appointments upon appointments upon appointments. No pain, no nothing.

The only bright spots were those times when they had a few minutes to themselves. During a break that they didn’t have to share with colleagues or partners or when they finished work at the same time and managed to squeeze in a tired little chat. And not just about anything, and that was the weird thing; because Castiel didn’t just pretend that their date and arrangement from the week before didn’t happen. That they were just boss and assistant by day and soon-to-be play partners by night. He didn’t purposely ignore Dean or shy away from his glances or anything. No, he smiled at Dean whenever he caught him looking and he touched Dean just like he did before, gave him little compliments and words of encouragement. He asked Dean about his day and his plans after work and he assured him time and time again that, should he have changed his mind, it would have been alright and that they would work it out.

Not that Castiel went into detail or anything about their arrangement, he just gave Dean the buffer that he claimed they both needed and yet paid a lot of attention to him. Which was unexpected. Not even because Castiel is such a professional guy, just – just because.

(That one time, Dean had hooked up with a guy he occasionally crossed paths with, and they didn’t even scene or anything, just fucked roughly every now and then, whenever it struck their fancy. But after they were done, the guy always rolled off Dean, got dressed, didn’t even tell him goodbye and pretended to barely know him whenever they saw each other again.)

Maybe Dean had been afraid that this would turn out like that, too – that Castiel would be polite but superficial to him at all times and then happily use him whenever they had left work and any other people behind. Instead, if anything, Castiel was even kinder to him around other people, let his touches linger longer than before, sometimes rubbed or squeezed Dean, one time almost embraced him for no reason at all.

It was sweet and thrilling and left Dean constantly blushing and on the good kind of edge. It actually increased his output and the quality of it, simply because he knew that if he excelled, there would be good things waiting on him. Because that’s what those touches and that praise were – just genuinely _good_ things.

But beyond that, other things were waiting on him, too. Namely, the dinner they had arranged. After sending some messages back and forth, they had both decided to meet the next weekend for dinner again – but this time, not in a public place with nosy and bratty employees, but privately. And as the idea of letting Castiel into his apartment just yet didn’t sit entirely right with Dean for some reason, he was quick to accept Castiel’s cautious invitation to come over and meet at his place instead. Have Castiel cook for him.

Which turned out alright, even if not overwhelmingly so. It was obvious that Castiel tried his hands on a very elaborate meal, but even with all the right ingredients and cookbook, his lack of cooking skills showed in the end. The food was still good and thankfully healthy and the few burnt pieces of meat were almost not apparent at all. And really, the fresh assortment of berries and molten chocolate (of which Dean allowed himself a tiny bit) made sure that Dean could only ever remember this meal favourably.

And that’s how Dean finds himself sinking on the most comfortable couch he ever sat on, green necktie loose around his neck, full to the brim with all of the food Castiel had made for him, sluggish and buzzing with something close to happiness. Castiel just smiled at him when Dean first sat down on the couch and let out a surprised yelp and the a moan as he immediately sank into the cushions, and then he left the room to get something he wouldn’t say. 

Not that Dean particularly cares right now. He feels to good to think too much on anything, just snuggles into the couch and yawns out of sheer comfort. Then thinks about the food again and then his thoughts drift to how kind Castiel is and how nice it to just be here and be taken care of and relax and yeah. It’s just really nice. Really, really nice.

Dean is already halfway into a nap when Castiel comes back into the living rooms, some sheets of paper in one hand, a pen in the other. At first, Dean doesn’t give it any thought because all of his focus is on how Castiel is down to his dress shirt now and his sleeves are rolled up, exposing his tan and thick lower arms that promise more than enough power to hold Dean down or up or manhandle him however he likes him, and it would be a bit too much to concentrate on paper instead of this. To not let his fantasies run wild.

And Dean almost lets out a soft little moan again. This time, not because of the soft cushions.

Castiel just smiles at him as he sits down on the armchair angled towards the couch and close to the couch table. With that, Dean kind of loses eye contact with him, can’t really see much of anything but his hair and the ceiling, but it’s alright. There’s the rustling of paper and the sound of a pen being opened and then used, and the relaxing noise of the dishwasher running in the kitchen.

Dean almost gives in to his half-napping again when Castiel suddenly speaks up, blindsiding Dean a bit with his honest question presented in a low and raspy voice.

“So, how do you feel about kissing?”

“Uhm, oh. Kissing is– awesome. Mhm,” Dean says as enthusiastically as possible, hoping that this was Castiel asking for permission before he will be all over him, kissing him as if both their lives depended on it.

No such thing, though.

“I agree. So, Yes to kissing.” Dean only hears the scritch of a pen, but can’t be bothered to turn his head around just yet. He expected Castiel to make use of his newfound and surely not all that surprising knowledge, but despite that, he remains seated. It seemed like such a good opener, which is why why the next question comes kind of out of the left field. “And what about spanking?”

Dean’s almost instantly flaming red, and he knows without seeing because his cheeks burn, though not the ones he would like to burn, given the topic. “Oh, yeah, that– that too. Absolutely.” Is this Castiel’s idea of smalltalk? Or just another opener for more stuff? For going further, perhaps. The man might have some plans already.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Castiel says in a tone that makes Dean absolutely believe him. There’s the scratching of a pen again. “And what are your thoughts on comeplay?”

“It’s good, but no coming on my face or humiliating m– _wait._ What.” With a jolt, Dean sits up enough to look someplace else than the cushions or the ceiling, and it’s to find Castiel hunched over his couch table, the sheets he brought spread out around him and looking suspiciously enough like a list. A list from which six boxes are already ticked with a red pen, with swirls and dots Dean can’t quite decipher from here. And that’s when it begins to dawn on him. “Is that seriously a checklist?”

Castiel looks up at him from the paper, one eyebrow raised, while one of his hand still shuffles with the sheets as if looking for something. “Yes?”

“W– why do you have a checklist?”

“Oh, you will have one as well. As soon as we are done, I will copy it for you. Don’t worry.”

“That’s not what I’m worrying about.” Dean tries to sit up straighter from his comfy prison, but all he manages it to vainly struggle and sink in even deeper back in. He tries once more and at least succeeds to take up his position that allowed him to look at Castiel again. “What I mean is, what do we need a checklist for?”

Now there’s the beginnings of proper confusion written on Castiel’s face, and he stops with his shuffling to fully concentrate on Dean. “Because we don’t know anything about each other. About our preferences, I mean. I am not confident that I would remember to ask every possible preference and kink unless I have it written down, so that is why I like to do it like this, with a list. Unless, of course, you are uncomfortable with this and want to discuss this verbally. I would still want to write down where our preferences match afterwards, though. I will probably not be able to remember everything otherwise.”

It’s how earnest Castiel looks and sounds that renders Dean speechless for a moment. Where their preferences _match?_ Dean leans forward a bit, and he can see that the six boxes are in fact for only three of the rows and set in two different columns. On top of both columns is something written in red ink, and only now does Dean get what they are and what they are for: on top of the columns are their names, written in Castiel’s familiar scrawl, and the rows are kinks or whatever else there might be. Kissing, Spanking, Comeplay, all three of them ticked with small smiley faces in the boxes. Showing their preferences, their approval – of not just Castiel and what he wants, but also of Dean. Of what _both_ of them like.

Which seems to be in agreement so far, as there’s smiley faces in all of the boxes. There’s even a tiny heart drawn next to Spanking.

“I’m sorry. Did you want to spend more time privately with me before we discuss this? I would understand if you’re not comfortable to tell me about your preferences already. I should have thought of that before.”

“No,” Dean almost bursts out, and then swallows heavily. “I’ve just never done this before.”

Castiel tilts his head and squints at him, confusion evident. “Done what exactly?”

“Gone through a checklist, whether a written or a spoken one. Been–,” he takes a deep breath, and shudders there at the end of it, “been asked what I like or don’t like.”

“Then how did you plan out your scenes before? How did your Doms knew what you liked and what not?”

“We never planned anything. We just, uh. Did it. Got right into and sometimes, I liked it, and sometimes I— well.”

Dean turns his face away and lets the silence speak for him. He knows it’s stupid, by now, that the Doms were in the wrong not to treat him like Castiel does this very moment, but there’s a difference between knowing something logically and feeling it in his heart. He’s ashamed for how he has let himself be treated. Ashamed for some of the things he’s done, too. Yes, he was young and reckless and didn’t know that he had a say in this as well, that a sub’s voice is just as important as the Dom’s, but that doesn’t change much when he looks back on it. Because the feelings are still real and impossible to shake off; maturity and knowledge can’t just so easily override deep-seated shame and humiliation. Can’t undo that he was felt those things and still does; that they are a part of who he is and of what he has done.

Castiel grants him his silence for some time, for as long as it takes Dean to look back at him, or the general direction of him, and to school his face into something neutral, something only betrayed by the ruddy cheeks.

Then, Castiel breathes out deeply. With a cautious sound, he puts the pen down on the table and lets go of the sheets of paper. Instead of staying seated on his armchair, he heaves himself up, only to plop on the couch instead. Close enough to touch Dean if he reaches out to him, but not close enough to press himself against him in any way.

And only sneaks his hand forward, somewhere between them.

“You should know that it’s very important to me to know whatever there is to know about a new sub. Your preferences, your no-go’s, your triggers. I don’t want to accidentally do anything you don’t want to, and I won’t force anything like that on you.”

There’s that silence again, the very same one from just a few moments before, with nothing if not the same feelings and memories resurfacing, claiming to reign again. Castiel doesn’t let them, though; he speaks up again after only a few seconds, low and soothing and, most importantly, not further pursuing that topic.

“I understand if you prefer more spontaneous scenes, but only if we have already had the chance to explore us and our dynamics for a bit. I know many people think that it ‘takes the fun out of the scene’ or something along these lines if we talk them through beforehand, but I think it would be reckless to not at least set some ground rules.” He scoots up closer to Dean, and Dean feels his body reacting to his proximity instantly. He blushes and squirms, unsure whether to seek out Castiel’s warmth or draw away from him. “Especially since I believe you have already made some bad experiences and that there might be boundaries that you do not wish for me to cross. Or that you are not even aware of being there.”

Dean can’t help but scowl at that. Because yeah, that might have been the case before, years ago, and maybe it still is true to a degree, but he neither wants to be treated with kid gloves nor like an idiot who doesn’t know what he wants right now. He entered this arrangement under the assumption that both of them see and respect the other as an adult fully capable of consenting to their play. Not as some case in need of help or someone not fully aware of his own damn boundaries. “I know what I like and what I don’t like,” he simply replies, looking Castiel straight in the eye. He might be bent, but not fucking broken. Thank you very much.

“I’m sorry. That sounded patronizing.” Castiel sighs, and for a moment there, he looks so very human that it makes Dean both ache and long for him. Castiel rubs with both hands over his face, presses the balls of them into his sockets and then looks at Dean with clear, honest eyes. “I’m just afraid of hurting you. You are already very precious to me, almost strangely so, and I want give you whatever you want. But I feel like you haven’t been treated as you should have been in the past, and I just want to make sure that this won’t happen again. That _I_ won’t be whatever any other Doms were to you. I know I should trust both your words and you as an adult, and I do, but I’m still afraid of what I might be capable of doing. Because all I want is for you to feel good and as appreciated as you deserve.”

Dean just huffs out a breath, pretending still be pissed, but actually being embarrassed. Which is also what he tries to channel into his words. “I think you might be overestimating yourself and underestimating me a bit here. I might have had some ‘bad experiences’, as you say,” he digs his fingers into his thighs, and his voice remains steady, “but I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think that we could do this nonetheless. Both you and I. Together.”

It looks a lot like relief that softens all of Castiel’s face and his body, has him finally look as comfortable as he did during their dinner again. “I understand.” He nods to himself. “So, how do you want to go about this? And please, take into consideration that I will absolutely not just begin a scene without discussing beforehand how to–”

“Then let’s do that,” Dean rudely cuts in, because yeah, he has taken that into consideration by now and he has come here to finally get something out of any and all regarding Castiel. “Let’s discuss the scene beforehand. Right now. Tell me what you wanna do for our first scene and I tell you if I’m okay with that. If not, change of planes. If we stick to our plan during the scene we should be fine, right?”

Castiel looks at him and seems deep in sceptical thought. Which won’t do.

“We can still do the checklist afterwards. But like this, you will get a feel for us anyway, won’t you? Maybe get an idea of not just what I want, but what you want as well. And maybe what you want to do to me in the future.”

It’s not quite a laugh what Castiel lets out, more of a chuckle. A dark and rich sound, promising only good things.

And just like that, there’s a change of tides, of the wind. There’s night, and only the two of them.

“I don’t need to get an idea of what I would like to do with you, Dean Smith. I have more than enough of these already.”

Dean gulps. And there it comes creeping in, that almost too hot and not hot enough, cradling and shaking and fulfilling feeling that he wants to ride on, that he wants to enjoy to the fullest. Enjoy _himself_ to the fullest. So he dares to take a plunge. “Yeah? So would you care to share some of those ideas for our first scene together?”

Which is, going by the flicker in Castiel’s eyes, the exact right thing to propose.

“I want to start out by kissing you,” Castiel breathes out and draws closer, the warmth of his body finally heavy and promising against Dean’s own, a long line of craved firmness. “I have spent a lot of time thinking about kissing you, so I would like to spend a lot of time on actually doing it.”

“That’s, uhm,” Dean clenches his eyes shut for a moment, but it only amplifies the image burning behind his eyelids. Of those pink lips on his, of Castiel actively fantasizing about this as well, about teeths and tongues and the long-awaited satisfaction of a mutual craving. “Fine by me.”

“Then, I would like to slowly undress you and kiss all over your body.” Castiel’s throat clicks wetly as he swallows. “You are not allowed to touch me and not to move unless explicitly told you, which I won’t. And you will obey. Because I want you to be still because I told you to be, not because I bound you or shackled you to the posts of my bed. Which I plan to do another time.” The small nod that he lets his words follow make his dress shirt rub against Dean’s, makes it harder to breathe. “But as much as I want you to be still, I wouldn’t want you to be quiet. I want to hear exactly if you like what I do, I want to hear you enjoy yourself. I want you to moan and beg for me.”

“Y-yeah, alright. That’s, _ah,_ fine, too.”

Castiel’s lips curve up into a dark, promising little smile, and Dean thinks maybe he should run, but every direction he can think of is right into Castiel’s arms. “In that case, I would like to continue kissing you, all over, until I reach your cock and your rim, where I would kiss you, too. I want to take you into my mouth and taste you, taste how hard you are for me, and then I want to lick you out, Dean. I want you to remain as still as I told you to be, want you to squirm and moan, and come on nothing but my tongue.”

“Yeah, that’s.” Dean licks his lips, finding them already wet and terribly unoccupied – not unlike his dick. “That’s yeah, okay. Yeah.”

“And once you have come and are as sated as I want you to be, I wish to,” he stops himself there, takes a shuddering breath, and Dean has absolutely no clue whether it’s because Castiel has to take a moment for himself too or because he hesitates. Because his next wish is spoken right against the shell of Dean’s ear, warm and wanting, but maybe a little unsure, “I wish to press you down into the mattress with one hand, while with the other, I bring myself off. I don’t want you to do anything but lie there and enjoy your pretty afterglow while I come all over your belly. While I mark you up with my come and rub it into your skin and make you even more beauti– _mph–”_

Dean doesn’t even make the conscious decision to move when his lips are already smashed against Castiel’s and his hands are clinging to his dress shirt, pulling him closer, into his body, over it. So that the whole of Castiel’s is pressing into him as they struggle and rut and try to find a position that works.

It’s a tangle of tongues and limbs and way too comfy cushions, it’s breaths and lips frantically searching for one another, but at some point, Castiel seems to finally get some leverage and foothold and presses himself up against Dean, hands to either side of his head and _oh, yeah,_ that’s working.

Because like this, Dean can feel that Castiel is just as affected by their little planning as he is, what with his hard and apparently deliciously thick erection rubbing against Dean’s through the fabrics of their pants. Even better, Castiel has perfect access to Dean’s mouth and Dean’s to his, and it’s so easy to open it just enough for the tip of Castiel’s tongue to slip in and to invade it even further. For Castiel to compel it to open with lips that won’t stop pressing against Dean’s, welcoming itself in, and with a tongue that just licks deeper and deeper, swallows his moans, swallows his begging, just takes what Dean has already consented to give.


	8. VIII

So many things in his life have felt good, have made him feel high on happiness and as if nothing bad could ever possibly happen, but few things come even close to what _this_ feels like. Because while seeing Charlie graduate and having his father Bobby tell him that he’s proud of Dean when he finally got accepted by Sandover were quite the events in themselves, Dean would be hard-pressed to recall them right now – or any other event in his life, for that matter. Because how could he? Like this, with warmth and comfort and firm limbs pressing in on him from all sides, with the mouth of Castiel finding his own again and again, presses and licks and bites, like he’s hungry for it, _starving_ for Dean, in the way Dean thought he was the only one starving for.

Castiel’s hands are working relentlessly on the buttons of Dean’s dress shirt and when they won’t succeed in undressing him properly, hindered by the green tie, Castiel huffs out some breath and looks like he’s one second away from growling. And god, does Dean want him to. To rip open his shirt and have his way with him, all while growling and whispering filth into Dean’s ear.

Instead, he puts his right hand on his neck, right where Dean’s pulse must be jumping in arousal and anxiety, and caresses it, his gaze thoughtfully remaining on the tie. And then the warmth of his open palm leaves Dean, only a finger still in contact with his skin, and with it, Castiel traces the silk-clad skin, the tip of his finger dipping just beneath the fabric that feels tighter and tighter with each heavy swallow, and then he reaches the knot.

Castiel doesn’t even tug at it. All that he does is keep looking like the cat that caught the canary and keeping the tip of his finger on Dean’s incessantly bobbing Adam’s apple, something that might make Dean feel vulnerable and uncomfortable any other day, but only leaves him raw and yet full of trust and pleasant anticipation right now. Because as vulnerable as he might be right now, he feels nothing but invincible.

It’s when Dean swallows against his throat starting to feel even drier that Castiel’s finger resumes its little path. Blue eyes stay locked with green ones when he dips his finger into the knot, no force or impatience behind it, and smoothly pulls it open, loosens it just enough to make breathing for Dean that bit easier, to make it that much harder.

“This will stay on,” Castiel decides with a calm voice and kindling heat in his eyes. And he doesn’t even wait for Dean to say anything, just follows his trail along the tie back, but this time not on top of it, but with his finger clearly separating silk from shirt, dipped in there, loosening it around all of Dean’s sensitive, burning neck. 

Dean feels like sobbing at how tender and good it feels. How intimate it is. He doesn’t, though, only keeps his eyes fixated on the man above him, all strength and care and all Dean’s. For now, at least. But oh, as if that already wasn’t more than enough.

When he’s finally done and loosened the tie around every sensitive spot on Dean’s neck, Castiel doesn’t hesitate to open the last of the buttons on Dean’s dress shirt, the two ones right on top that were obstructed before. Now, it’s child’s play with the necktie not snug and possessive around Dean’s neck anymore, which is why it takes Castiel almost no time at all to move beyond that as well. For him to finally push Dean’s shirt up and away, the fabric that uncovers his skin inch by inch immediately followed by the warmth of his hands, by long fingers that and big palms that glide over his freckles and nipples and gently tug at Dean’s wrists to pull the shirt all the way up, to leave Dean’s torso completely bare to Castiel’s gaze.

A gaze out of eyes that are round and wide, flitting over every inch of skin he has just exposed, taking it in with a focus that is familiar to Dean, quite in contrast to that other component to it, the edge of an emotion that might be awe in another lifetime. A lifetime in which Dean has a waist and no tummy and nipples that aren’t as perky, don’t make him look as needy as he does, and suddenly, he _does_ feel vulnerable.

Instantly, Dean wants to clench his eyes shut and twist away, maybe dress himself again and ask for them to do what they are about to do with the lights turned down or off, and preferably with Castiel keeping his hands off Dean’s body for as much is possible. Dean could just ask to suck him off and then get out of there, to never return again. Leaving them both to awkwardly forget any of this ever happened.

But the very moment he moves his body and tries to turn away, Castiel’s fingers dig into his skin and there’s a warm moan that Dean can’t place and then there are Castiel’s lips again, open and moving against Dean’s own, ignited, feverish, _burning,_ accompanied by soft little moans that must be either Castiel’s or his own slipping into Castiel’s mouth, or both, just both of them giving voice to their pleasure, to their _need,_ because just like that, Dean is awash with pleasure and confidence again, knows nothing beyond that.

“Dean,” Castiel breathes against Dean’s lips, hot and a little broken. _“Dean.”_

“Cas– Castiel,” breathes right back, and then seeks out the desperate presses of lips and insistent licks of Castiel’s tongue again. There’s too much glorious heat to enjoy, too much of it almost, and Dean can’t put his finger on why that bit of kissing is already making his head swim, why the way Castiel’s hands are roaming his body, his nipples and his tummy, and not even the bulge pressing up against his zipper, are making him feel so dizzy, so overcome with helpless and overwhelming arousal.

“You’re so beautiful, Dean,” Castiel kisses into his slight stubble dusting his jaw. “Absolutely perfect. You taste so good.”

“No, I’m–” Dean begins to protest, and he begins another attempt to wind his body away to flee not those kisses, but those words.

For nothing, though, because before he can even do as much as flinch, there’s hands grabbing his wrists and holding him still, as well as deep blue eyes boring into his, the intoxicating mixture of something equally as fond as dangerous in them.

And _there_ it is; what Dean came for. What he was waiting for. He would grin, would his arousal allow him to.

“Stay still, Dean,” Castiel actually _growls_ this time, fingers tightening around Dean’s racing pulse, a desired punishment in itself. “You are not allowed to move anything but your lips from now on, unless I explicitly tell you otherwise. And no back-talking. If I say compliment you and tell you that you are perfect, then you are not to contradict me, but accept my compliment for what it is.” His hands leave Dean’s wrists again, regrettably, but the same is not true for the heat in his eyes. “As the absolute truth.” 

And as arrogant it sounds, Dean feels, for some reason, that the it’s not Castiel’s over-confidence in _himself_ that has him speak like this, that won’t accept Dean to regard himself as anything but perfect.

What a dangerous, humbling thought.

Castiel cards through Dean’s hair, once, twice, and it’s tender how he does it, but there’s a promise in there, in how he doesn’t catch every strand just softly, but sometimes lets them tug against Dean’s scalp, lets him know that the tides could turn if Castiel wanted to, that there is something beyond the gentleness waiting on Dean, should he not follow his commands.

“Yes, sir,” Dean breathes on the edge of a moan.

Because it’s a heady promise. One that almost has Dean squirming again, although he doesn’t, knows better now. He remains stock-still, obedient in his lack of motion as Castiel looks down at him with a pleased expression. Because that’s not what he wants to be for Castiel – not some bratty sub that constantly disregards his Dom’s commands and challenges his authority and has him put him over his lap and spank him all the time. That is – yes, not _all the time,_ at least. Not the _very first time._ He wants to show Castiel how well he can behave instead, so that he will know in the future, should Dean misbehave, that that’s not all he is. That he’s not constantly deserving of some sweet punishment, just sometimes. That he can do _better._ That he can actually be a–

“Good boy,” Castiel all but purrs above him and gives his head some more caresses. “So pliant for me.”

And huh, Dean didn’t even notice how he has relaxed right back into the sofa cushions and into Castiel’s hands, how the thought of having his bottom spanked and of showing that Castiel is right to take him on as a sub has made his mind and body light and pleased. Because he feels that he can do this – that Castiel will give him a good chance to prove himself.

“Now stay like this and let me take care of you. Let me to kiss every part of your gorgeous body,“ Castiel says, and the use of that little word, _gorgeous,_ doesn’t sound like a joke or an attempt to mock Dean at all; more like Castiel’s truth embedded in a command, like he told Dean to see it as.

Whatever it is, it keeps Dean still. And not just because he knows he has to be. It has him simply vaguely accept what Castiel said, at least for the time being. Because what harm is there in half-believing such praise, especially as it is accompanied by open-mouthed kisses, unbashful in the wet sounds they make and the breathy little huffs, by Castiel pulling him closer into his hands and kisses, making him feel the strength of his body, of his words.

Flooding him.

Until all that’s left is the cushion under Dean’s body and the warmth above him, and the soft sounds and pleasant caresses mellowing all of him right down to the core. So much that he barely feels his own limbs anymore, not unless they are receiving kisses or caresses, until there is a need to pay attention to them, to the only sensations left in the world, and what _good_ sensations they are.

Dean sighs deeply and lets himself fall. Vaguely, he registers Castiel smiling at him and he smiles back, which only makes Castiel’s smile grow all the more.

“You’re so good for me right now, Dean.” He presses his still quirked-up lips to one of Dean’s nipples, making him gasp. “I was afraid you would put up much more of a fight to let me do this. To allow me free reign within our limits.”

“It’s only kisses,” Dean murmurs in reply, but Castiel doesn’t say anything to that.

Because it’s true – that’s all there is until now. Sure, Castiel has told him what else there is to come, but they are not there, not yet. It’s okay to let Castiel do this without putting up the fight he thought he would, right? Or does it make him _easy_ to let Castiel kiss his mouth and neck and nipples like this, panting around his nubs? Did Castiel expect him to not give it up just like that, for him not to act like such a– _slut?_ Maybe Castiel assumed Dean should know better by now, after all the shit he went through with other Doms. To be more cautious, not as willing for a scene and a fuck. And yet, here he is, groaning and arching into Castiel’s mouth as he alternatingly twirls his tongue around one of Dean’s nipples, getting them all nice and hard and wet, then kissing them as if they are something precious.

“You sound lovely,” Castiel smiles into Dean’s skin, then licks a broad stripe over Dean’s pink nub, catching it with first his lips, then the grazing of his teeth, and _fuck._

Dean moans, short and shy, but no less passionate for it, and Castiel laughs kindly.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.” One of his hands strays from where both were it was stroking Dean’s sides and his embarrassingly still swollen tummy, down to where Dean is about as equally swollen, yet still confined to the fabric of his dress pants, and waiting. Casually and almost experimentally, Castiel lays his hand on the bulge of it, and squeezes.

Dean can’t help but moan again, louder this time, and he almost moves, disobeys the order he has been given. But he doesn’t, which Castiel must have noticed, because he keeps looking at him all pleased and keeps his hand over Dean’s cock, then puts a little more pressure on it, rubs it tormentingly sweetly.

“Your voice always sounds so pleasant. No, more than that. Absurdly enticing, if I’m honest.” Castiel nods and hums just so, and Dean thinks that if his voice already is enticing, then Castiel’s must be nothing but a siren’s song. “But even more so like this, without confines, with no one else around to listen to it but me,” he strokes over Dean’s bare and wetted chest, “and while having the opportunity to not just hear, but also feel you speaking.” The hand not resting on Dean’s crotch hand works its way up higher, past Dean’s nipples and up to where his throat lies open, exposed to the flat palm stroking over it. Not pressing, just exploring, as gently and non-threatening and nonetheless proving his point as everything else Castiel’s done.

Castiel smiles when Dean swallows heavily, the twitch of it no doubt perceptible against the soothing palm.

But Castiel doesn’t do any more than this. None of the choking and pressing and bruising Dean has only experienced once or twice, but would have come to expect in this scenario. Somewhere in his head, the logical part of Dean’s brain tells him that he knows the reason for this: because Castiel and him have never talked about this nor agreed on asphyxiation as part of this scene or any other play, so it would be wrong of Castiel to do something as daring as this anyway. Without knowing Dean would like this. Without his consent.

And yet, Dean’s taught instinct was to assume otherwise.

Dean swallows again, and he feels a tremble run through his body, making it move just so, not enough for Castiel to get angry over it or call him disobedient, yet still enough for Castiel to take in the soft shudder of his limbs, only keeping up for a few moments. Castiel then lets his hand slide up, cups Dean’s cheeks and looks him deep in the eyes.

“Are you scared, Dean?”

Almost, almost, Dean shakes his head to negate, but he catches himself, reminds himself to be good, and merely grounds out a soft, “No, sir.”

“Then what are you?” Castiel prods, calm and not even meant as a turn-on or anything of the sort, but just that for Dean nonetheless.

Which is incidentally also what makes his dick twitch, where it is still encased in the cup of Castiel’s other hand, warm and right where it should be. “I’m–,” Dean begins, searching for words that don’t give to the embarrassment that comes with the easy reaction of his body, to how he can feel himself getting even harder and how Castiel’s eyes become darker. “I’m not scared,” he explains breathlessly, much to the amusement of Castiel.

“Not scared, then.” The smile has finally returned, making Castiel’s lips look all the prettier and more kissable. The hand around Dean’s bulge tightens gently, then starts to move a bit, fingers working in a rewarding rhythm against the slacks and making Dean’s breath catch. “Which begs the question what you _are_ instead.”

 _Ashamed,_ for one thing. At how little it takes for Castiel to bring him to the heights of arousal with nothing but a few words and a smile, the hand on his dick not even necessary. _Needy,_ for the other. Because despite his embarrassment, Dean still can’t help but wish he were allowed to press his cock against the palm of Castiel’s hand, grinding into it, maybe getting himself off like this, like a little slut who just needs to rub against some man’s hand to get the inside of his pants sticky. Maybe that’s what Castiel is hoping for, despite their plan.

So, when Castiel’s still won’t take his eyes off him, as if he actually expects an answer to his kind-of-question, Dean chooses the path of – what he hopes – least resistance.

 _“Easy,”_ he lets out with a strained voice.

Castiel’s eyebrows lift. “’Easy’, is that?” He doesn’t seem exactly pleased with that answer. Maybe that’s not enough yet. “Now, why would you think that?”

So, is that what he wants? Sure, he meant to tell Castiel that he’s not exactly fond of humiliation, but he didn’t get around to quite finishing around saying that, and anyway, it’s probably always a bit up for debate what ‘humiliation’ would include, exactly. And whether Dean just doesn’t like being shoved around and spit on, or if he also feels tears burning right behind his eyes whenever he is supposed to endure the degrading words of another person or also himself.

“Because I’m like this,” Dean starts out with, wishing to please Castiel, although he’s not quite sure how to go about that with these kinds of things, “I’m a lit– little slut for you. You just need to give me one hand and you already have me hard and willing, and I would let you do whatever you want to me without a fight.” Dean’s throat suddenly feels tight, even more so at the unreadable expression on Castiel’s face, so he keeps going, hopes to improve. “So easy that I would let my boss fuck me just like that. Would have let you have done so way before, like a proper little who–”

 _“Dean,”_ Castiel cuts in sharply, and his face is suddenly not that unreadable anymore, but apparently torn somewhere between aghast and angry. “This– this is not why I asked you this question for. I just wanted an explanation, not–” He shakes his head, looking almost helpless, and then leans down towards Dean, and instead of a hungry kiss that would let both of them move past this, lets them swallow this short episode and lets them pretend Dean is just a little slow on the uptake, Dean gets a gentle press of lips against his forehead. Slow, soft, almost a small blessing.

“Another rule,” Castiel murmurs against Dean’s forehead, and while he keeps speaking, his words are interspersed with little kisses that are just as tender, as caring. “You are not allowed to speak ill of yourself when we do this.” A soft kiss against Dean’s brow. “If you were easy or a ‘slut’, as you say.” A soft kiss against Dean’s freckled lids. “It surely wouldn’t have taken us months to get here, for us to build enough trust to even think of sharing something like this.” A soft kiss to his cheekbones. “And if you were, it would in no way dimish your worth and this would nonetheless still be the greatest honour.” He finally presses his lips back against Dean’s jaw. “To touch you like this.” And a soft kiss to the hollow of Dean’s throat, where necktie and skin are only loosely connected, the silk not protecting his throat from the insistent kisses its being peppered with. “To kiss you like this.”

That tremble is back, making Dean feel small but not unprotected, just making him wish he was allowed to lift his hands and cradle Castiel’s face against his chest, pulling him close to where he is already planting kisses against, teasing Dean’s nipples with nothing but his lips and curious fingers, humming and soft.

Dean closes his eyes and lets the tremble run its course. Neither Castiel nor him appear to be paying more than the slightest bit of attention to it now, and after so many more kisses and the return of one hand stroking over Dean’s belly, it simply eventually subsides.  
  
Castiel doesn’t let up on his nipples until both are swollen and straining, peaks rising up as if waiting for Castiel to put his lips to them again.

And _god,_ Dean couldn’t even tell whether he’d want him to keep going or not. Whether he’d prefer for Castiel to continue his sweet torture or to not stray from the path he is finally beginning to take right now, kissing a line down Dean’s sternum until he reaches the top of his pudgy and full tummy, and going lower still.

And right then, when Dean expects him to finally go for the gold, to bring him some relief and take Dean’s red and aching cock in his mouth, Castiel just. Stops. Right where he is. With his lips pressed to Dean’s tummy, which is futilely sucked in and still round and chubby, and he is doing nothing but putting little kisses to it. As he did to his face. Kisses so small, they barely make more than a little smacking sound. Kisses so sweet, Dean wants them to stop. Not because of a lack of enjoying them – but because he thinks those kinds of kisses should be reserved for someone else. For someone who’s not him. A true lover, maybe. A worthy sub.

“C-Castiel,” Dean manages to croak out, breathless and still too deep in that pleasant feeling that the simple stroking and kissing has brought him to speak properly. Immediately, Castiel looks to him, his blue eyes eager, serene, soft.

“Yes, Dean?”

And the way he says Dean’s name doesn’t even serve to arouse as much as it does relax Dean, and it’s stoking his need to just lie back and let Castiel do whatever he wants to, keep going in his ministrations. Maybe not on Dean’s tummy, but generally speaking. It’s been a long time since anyone has done something like this for Dean – so long, in fact, that he can’t even remember when or if this has happened. And that’s also why it can’t go on. Why there needs to be something less sensual and tender and something more sexual and rough to this. Dean had expected Castiel to rip him open when they finally do this, scene – and weirdly enough, that’s what he’s doing. Just not in the way Dean wants him to. Wants him to want him to.

“Please, ah.” Dean wants to sink back into the cushions until they swallow him, until he doesn’t have to beg for something like this anymore. “Please, suck my cock.”

Castiel seems none too impressed by this and shakes his head. Dean can feel his stubble rub up against his tummy with the motion, and for a moment, he thinks of himself as a cat who does nothing but exactly that all day.

“No,” Castiel says simply, definite. “I have told you what I will do, and this is also what will happen. I will take all the time I want and kiss all of your body first before my lips will touch your length or any other beautiful, intimate part of you that I have yet to explore.” Despite the sharper tone of his voice in the beginning, it becomes mellows out as he goes on, and the look on his face has Dean wonder if he may be fantasizing about it, about which else of his ‘beautiful’ parts Castiel will get to see. “Right now, I want to touch and kiss your belly, and I will do so for however long I please. Unless there is something you need to tell me.” He squints at Dean, thoughtful. “What is your colour?”

“That’s not why I–”

“Your colour, Dean.”

Dean presses his lips into a tight line before he answers and looks off to the side. “Green.”

“Good. And now look back at me.” There’s an edge to his voice that has Dean instantly obeying and trying to look placating and pretty enough for Castiel to be soothed.

“I told you, you are not to move unless I tell you to. Don’t make me punish you.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“Very good, Dean. I know you can do this. You have been doing so well already,” Castiel praises, gentler again, “I know this isn’t all that easy for you, but I know we can do this. Together.” He strokes Dean’s side, tickling him unintentionally and making Dean smile despite himself. “What do you think?”

“I,” Dean says around his helpless smile, and as soon as Castiel notices he is tickling him, he strokes a bit firmer, turning it into an easy caress instead, “I think so, too. I _want_ to.”

Castiel’s responding smile is beautiful. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah,” Dean slurs out happily. “It feels nice to do this with you.”

“I agree.”

Castiel almost looks like a little boy at those words, at this little necessary interlude and confirmation. Then, he nods a few times, and with every nod, he loses a bit of his boyish charm and becomes more like before again, like a strict and fair Dom, someone who knows himself and how to take care of a willing submissive like Dean.

So, Castiel gets to work again and dives back down, to where all of Dean is exposed for him.

Relentlessly, he works over Dean’s tummy, scolding Dean when he sucks it in so hard that it becomes obvious that he does. He coaxes Dean to just let it go and let it expand naturally, and once Dean listens to him and just breathes normally, not trying to hide the roundness of his belly, he also relaxes more. Weird, how he can feel the air expanding his lungs more throughout all of his body, the effect instantenous in how even how the kisses he receives feel less constricted and more pleasurable.

Soon enough, there are little dots, not quite hickeys, no marks without permission, in the dip of Dean’s hip and around his navel and the slope that leads to his crotch. They are beautiful, although sadly, Dean knows them to be gone by the next morning.

And then, as soon as Castiel looks satisfied with his work of blotches and blooms, his lips wander again: all the way up and down Dean’s arms and legs, kissing his palms as much as the sole of his feet, making both of them giggle, to the tips of his ears and of his fingers, to the back of Dean’s knees and the small of his back, once Dean has turned around and wound himself out of his slacks.  
  
And just like that, Castiel is kissing his butt cheeks, as tenderly as any other part, and – going by his pleased, low sounds – enjoying the soft give of them, how squishy they must be beneath his lips and his hands.  
  
“Every part of you is so wonderful,” Castiel sighs and kisses along a little path that makes Dean wonder whether he is following the line of a few freckles on his butt. “I know you work hard for your body, doing all these diets and exercising a lot, but even without that, I am certain you would look excellent.” He traces his thumb along the crack of Dean’s butt, just teasing and not even dipping inside, and then follows the path of his thumb with his lips and nose.  
  
Dean makes a soft noise that he hopes doesn’t sound too much like a whine.

“Probably even more so,” Castiel confides when he lays one of his cheeks against Dean’s butt cheek, rubbing against it so incrementally, Dean isn’t even sure he even realizes he’s doing it. It’s a strange thing to do, after all. Generally speaking, but also given their situation. Too intimate.  
  
Then again, all of this is strange so far: how they came to be like this, how Castiel behaves around him, what he says. But Dean tries not to give too much thought to what Castiel says, realizing that this must be Castiel’s style of Dominating someone as much as his natural disposition to be fond of praising other people; Dean specifically. Because Dean may believe him if he tells him that he has done a good job when they have sacked a deal or made enough profit, but to hear him practically gush about Dean’s more-than-average body and whatever else is simply… ridiculous. It’s over-the-top, as nice as it is. And Dean likes to listen to it, to pretend it’s true and just for him, but whenever Castiel lays it on too thick, it simply becomes unbelievable. Because that’s not how Dean is. Not beautiful or wonderful or _excellent._ He’s average by nature and may only appear a bit better than that because he fights so hard and struggles even more. And even then, he is nowhere near all those nice terms Castiel describes him with. Far from them.  
  
But even that dark and probably true line of thought is quickly left behind, discarded for the moment, when Castiel speaks again.  
  
“I know I have said that I would take you in my mouth first, lick and suck your cock and your balls and only then would I do this, taste you where you must be just as sensitive and just as perfect.” Castiel presses his thumbs to where both butt cheeks meet, following the rim with one finger each, making Dean shudder. He caresses the indeed sensitive place for nothing more than the span of a few breaths and then parts them, spreading the cheeks from one another, exposing a hole that Dean can actually feel clench under Castiel’s gaze. “You must forgive me as I want to ‘change things around a bit’ first, as you are so fond of doing as well.”  
  
And _fuck,_ but Dean can feel Castiel smile at his own lame joke right where he is, breathing hotly and almost casually against Dean’s hole, and Dean wants to shy away from it because no one has ever done this for him, has licked or kissed him at a place so filthy, and that’s also why he wants this even more. Because _damn,_ if it isn’t hot for Castiel to be about to do this because he wants to, intending indeed to lick him out like this instead of just blowing Dean or getting him off with his hand. He’s _eager_ to do this, hungry for Dean and his hole, as much is clear by the little moan Castiel lets out and by how his breath comes out just that bit heavier when Dean clenches again as Castiel rubs the sensitive inside of Dean’s butt cheeks with the tips of his thumbs, skirting his rim and sending a tingle throughout Dean’s body that him feel like clenching his toes.  
  
“I thought we were gonna stick to the plan?” Dean teases, but it comes out breathy and too turned on to be taken seriously.

“I thought you wanted to be more spontaneous? This is me being spontaneous within the limits we discussed,” Castiel teases right back, and it’s almost funny, how both of them try to appear as non-chalant as possible when neither can speak quite without panting. “Unless you do want me to blow you first, _Dean.”_

Hearing his own name spoken so close to his damn hole and while knowing just what is about to happen and what other good things Castiel has yet in store is almost too much. Because it makes Dean want to rub his cock against the soft cushion beneath him, get himself off just like that, not even needing Castiel’s tongue inside him, just the _thought_ of it already worthy of an orgasm. Worthy of hundreds of orgasms.

But that’s neither what Castiel has just offered nor what Dean wants. Why enjoy the fantasy when he can have the real thing? When he is this close to Castiel licking into him, fucking him with his tongue?

“N-no. Keep– going. Not with the plan, but with what you’re doing. What you wanna do.” Castiel still looks one second away from keeping up the teasing, but Dean can’t have that. “Lick me out like you promised to, sir. Make me come on your tongue and then come all over me. Please, _please.”_

“So _good,_ Dean,” Castiel breathes out with a shudder, and this very breath hits Dean’s sensitive skin, the result and heat of what his own words have cause in Castiel. And the next second, there’s something even sweeter than this, not just breath and words, but Castiel’s lips finally sealing wet and greedy over Dean’s hole.


	9. IX

A scream rips itself out of Dean’s throat, loud and helpless in delight and surprise alike, in face of just how _good_ Castiel is to him.

First, he tries to reel away from the sensation of warm and wet lips against his hole, but when he pulls away, Castiel’s hand grab his hips and sides and pull him back, pull him _in,_ and then there’s two impatient spanks to the soft inside his thighs, not enough to really sting but enough to make his flesh jiggle, and then it’s tongue and heat and inexorable delight. That’s all there is, around him and inside him. Nothing but _pleasure pleasure pleasure_ and safety.

So, a part of his brain – and not the upstairs one – decides Dean might as well go with it. Press into the tongue, grind his hips into the face of the man behind him to get more of this, of all that pleasure and, _oh–_

 _This_ time, it’s four slaps, in a harsh and quick succession, to the sensitive inside of his thighs again. This time, it really stings.

“I told you to stay still, Dean,” Castiel grumbles into Dean’s ass, “don’t make me stop to take care of your behind with an open palm instead of my tongue.”

Dean whines, mourning the loss of control and hailing the new control that comes along with this, the knowledge that he is to obey Castiel now, and that if he does, if he keeps to what he is being told, obeys his every command, he will be rewarded and life will be simple. It’s simple as that, all working perfectly together. The king is dead, long live the king.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Dean presses out between the teeth he has sunken into his lip, “it just feels so good.”

“I’m sure it does.” Going by his voice and by what Dean knows of him, he feels like Castiel might be smiling or wanting to, at least. He’s pleased, as much is obvious, though maybe not specifically with Dean. Because he doesn’t praise him or anything, just strokes the tender flesh he has just struck, where Dean is already sensitive and soft by nature, and now even more so. But instead of twitching away or pressing into Castiel’s hand like he wants to, all Dean does is take a deep breath. “That is why I want to do this for you, Dean. But I have told you to remain still and let me take care of you in the way we have already agreed upon beforehand. And if you won’t let me, I will have to punish you for it. And I know both of us are more than fine with spanking.”

It might be a bit strange, for them to still let their negotiation slash dirty talk seep into the play, instead of just letting go and going with the scene, but for some reason, it helps Dean, eases his mind. Sure, like this, grounded in reason, it’s rather difficult for him to float away like he wants to. But he’s not sure if he could even give into it like that if they weren’t walking that uncommon line. He trusts Castiel, he does, but as much as Dean wants to allow him to just let that good feeling wash over him until he’s all out in the open, away from that self-conscious shore, he would be afraid to. It’s good like this; with Castiel as his lifeline, letting him go with the flow for some time, enjoy himself, and then pulling him back in, into steady hands and rational words, into a reminder of that going further doesn’t mean going too far, doesn’t mean they can’t reach their destination a single step at a time.

It’s perfect like this, for now.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Dean repeats.

“You already said that,” Castiel counters mildy. “What I want is not for you to tell me you’re sorry, but _show_ me. Can you do that, Dean? Behave and be a good boy for me?”

Dean is glad his cheeks must already be all red and hot from what Castiel tried to do with his tongue just a few moments beforehand, because otherwise, he’s sure he would be blushing just from these words. And it’s not just embarrassment or shyness or anything that makes his cheeks – both pairs – even rosier, but also a wonderful kind of anticipation and joy. “Yes, sir. I can do that. I will be good now.”

“You are always good, Dean,” Castiel whispers against his cheeks, returning with his lips and a trail of kisses, back to the warm and waiting center. “You’re simply not always a _good boy._ ”

“I will be,” Dean gasps out, the return of plush lips on the terribly sensitive insides of his cheeks stealing his breath.

“I know you will.” There’s soft smacks now, sounding wetter with every torturing kiss that it takes for Castiel’s mouth once again find the endlessly tightening and relaxing hole that’s still coated from the few tongue strokes he got in just before, his spit making it slick and glisten and so easy to brush his lips over it. It’s a tease that has Dean sighing and wishing to crane his head to look to where Castiel is, which he doesn’t, but it’s also a tease that’s followed through. Because there’s not just brushes then, but also proper kisses, a tiny lick with the tip of Castiel’s tongue that leaves Dean on edge.

“Please,” Dean whispers against the soft cushion he is bedded on, all of his body in open display yet remaining in absolute comfort.

He still wants more, allows himself to beg for it because he knows he won’t be called names for it, won’t have to lick Castiel’s shoes or be beaten for being a slut and then left by himself with no reprise to speak of. Since Castiel is not out for that – he wants to do things that he doesn’t have to and that are filthy, just because they feel good to Dean, and he only punishes Dean when he won’t let him make him feel good. When he goes against what they have discussed and then agreed upon, both before and during the scene. So, he might be ashamed for himself, but not afraid. And shame won’t hold him back when what he might receive in return feels so goddamn _nice._

Castiel just hums where he’s still intimately kissing Dean, barely more than a confirmation that he’s heard Dean’s little plea, but he doesn’t bother to reply beyond that. Maybe he waits for Dean to elaborate or something else, maybe beg some more or more clearly. Maybe he won’t allow his focus to be broken just like that.

Because focused, Castiel seems to be enough. There’s the play of his tongue around Dean’s rim, yet it seems not to be there to breach him and lick inside like Castiel promised to yet, but to wet his lips, get them even nicer and slicker as he keeps up his kisses.

“Please,” Dean croaks out again. _“Please_ – eat me out properly.”

Faintly, he hears a sound that might well be a laugh, and all that he receives in answer to his words is a tiny bite to his cheek, so close to his rim that it has a moan mixed with a yelp escape his mouth. Castiel just sounds even more amused as he deliberately puts a few kisses up and down Dean’s crack, skipping his entrance and even giving his balls a kiss. And _oh,_ suddenly there’s images of Castiel sucking down his balls and getting him off just like that, for however long it would take. And then fucking Dean when he’s all good and spent, just taking a body he’s milked with his mouth beforehand nice and hard on his back and–

“Please, fuck me on your tongue,” Dean begs much more frantically now, too incensed by his own fantasy to keep calm, “lick me out like you said you would. I wanna show you I’m a good boy, I’m _your-_ – I _need_ it. It feels so good, I need _more.”_

The hard cock pressing against Dean’s shin comes as a surprise, as does the little rutting that follows, accompanied by a lack of kisses and an abundance of panting right against his now thoroughly wetted hole. Castiel only keeps grinding against Dean briefly, although he feels achingly hard and thick even through his dress pants. Castiel’s action seems less like an attempt to get off, more like a little break in reason, something to alleviate the pressure and need pumping through his veins.

And Dean realizes that he did this, that _he_ is the cause for this little lapse in Castiel’s control, his panting and his delicious erection rubbing up against him. Castiel is too turned on by _him_ and his begging to keep up the role he is supposed to play, lapses in reason and gives in to his need to just rut and moan.

For a moment there, Dean wonders if Castiel’s cock is dripping where it’s still confined to his pants. Whether it’s as wet and wanting as Dean’s hole is.

His breath hitches.

He’s dizzy with it, that moment of madness that is gone almost as soon as it came, with hands that grab Dean’s hips almost painfully and then pull him into a tongue that is already freed from Castiel’s mouth as much as it could be, impossibly long and deliberately stiff, and then Castiel’s pushing inside with it, spearing Dean on the length on it, like Dean asked for, like he _begged_ for, and he yelps and yells and feels tears of joy welling up in his eyes as Castiel tongue returns back to where it belongs.

But Castiel doesn’t allow him any reprieve or any time to get used to the feeling. He pushes his tongue in and pushes it out, fucks it in and fucks it out. His hands are in an iron-grip around Dean’s hips, holding him still as if he didn’t even have the patience to test out whether Dean would be true to his word and be a good boy, but that he unerringly needs to do this as much as Dean needs him to do this. Keep him suspended just like this, lips sucking on his entrance with a pressure that is beyond sweet, is _divine_ instead.

At this point, Dean knows he must have sullied the couch cover. He doesn’t need to be allowed to move his head to know little drops of come must have smeared all over the sofa, making it just as filthy as everything about this act is. Because there might be spit among the sticky pearls too, whatever might have dripped from Dean’s rim or balls, right onto the cushion.

“You taste lovely,” Castiel confesses, voice muffled between Dean’s cheeks, and he licks right up over Dean’s rim again, a sloppy stroke that comes along with a happy sigh. “And you react so beautifully. You _sound_ so beautiful. Whatever noise you make and whatever you say, _oh.”_

Dean keens when Castiel licks inside him again, obviously torn between wanting to praise Dean and wanting to eat him out. The war continues with Dean’s keen, it seems, because as soon as Dean reins himself in again, rides the wave of pleasure with simple little whimpers, Castiel sighs. _“Yes,_ exactly like that.”

Cas strokes over one of Dean’s butt cheeks, with the intention to soothe him maybe, but the tenderness and casualness of it, as if it were a lover stroking his lover’s cheek – on his face – only makes Dean feel hotter, has him lose himself that bit more.

There’s no holding in that low whine sneaking out of Dean’s throat. No way to keep himself from begging again, saying, _“Please”_ without knowing what he’s even asking for this time.

Maybe exactly for the reaction he receives, a short moan that sounds cut-off but not ashamed, and it’s followed by another one when Castiel gives in to whatever he must think Dean was begging for when he buries his face between his cheeks again.

“Everything,” Castiel promises, hot and wet right into one of Dean’s most vulnerable and intimate parts. _“Anything.”_

And Dean doesn’t understand, at least doesn’t think he does. Because he doesn’t want to; it’s too much.

But it doesn’t matter because his plea has worked and there’s strict hands on him again, and a stiff tongue inside, and it feels so _good._ He’s looser already, he can feel it, his body used to Castiel’s attentions by now, and Dean’s sure that if he wanted to, Castiel could easily fit two fingers at once inside, just like that. Two of his long, thick fingers, all up in Dean. And Dean has no doubt that Castiel, as experienced as he seems, would be have no troubles finding his prostate with them, stroking it easily and tantalizingly, just how he handles all of Dean, and that he then would slowly lure him over the edge, milk him dry and render him useless, unwanting for anyone else. With just two of his thick fingers.

Dean almost bucks up at that, but all he does is twitch in Castiel’s hold and on his lavishing tongue, and Castiel doesn’t even reprimand him for that, just grunts and licks deeper, presses his face so strongly into Dean that his nose tickles the top of his crack, and Dean knows that this will be it, that he can’t go any further. Any other time, he would ride the tongue and the beautiful man behind him, would take what he can’t stumble back from, but even if there’s his plunge into pleasure about to happen, he _can’t_ without Castiel allowing him to. Can’t do anything like this without permission.

“Castiel. Sir. I–” His panting is heavy and his voice is dipped low and he knows he must sound like a slut, and even though Castiel would reprimand him for his thought, Dean knows it’s true. His dripping cock would certainly agree, as would the ruined sofa cover. “I can’t. It’s too much. It’s– _I’m gonna–”_

Castiel makes a sound like a man moaning around particularly fine piece of steak, like someone truly enjoying what he is eating, and it’s so guttural and filthy and it makes Dean almost sob with need.

“Please, let me– _come_. I need to. It’s too good, I feel _too good_ and– ah, _ah–”_

Castiel doesn’t even say anything, just shoves his hand in between Dean’s thighs, spreading his legs even wider with his arm and making Dean think about coming while rubbing himself against Castiel’s thick arm, legs closed and hard cock all shy yet wanting. And then that image disappears instantly when those long lingers close around his length, with the firm grip of a man too far gone, and then he pumps. Once, twice, a third time, and that’s all Dean gets because he’s not allowed to fuck Castiel’s fist like he wants to, instead remains a good boy until the end because he keeps his hips pretty and still for Castiel’s perusal, lets him stroke his cock from his pink tip down to his heavy balls, lets him feed him his tongue in and in until he’s root-deep and wet and good and in absolute control of Dean, who’s a slave to those exhilarating sensations that won’t stop coming , who’s in so much pleasure that his toes curl and his eyes spill over, who’s swept away in so much joy and _primal satisfaction_ that he’s yelling and sobbing and _coming_ , with a helpless, a heartfelt cry.

And absolute elation.

The buzz of it all stays for a few moments – Dean doesn’t know how for long exactly. The same is true for that white fog that is blurring his mind and senses.

In any case, he must have been truly abuzz for long enough that Castiel had time to manhandle him, to have put him on his back and position himself above him. Because the next thing Dean is acutely aware of is blue eyes fixated on his face, one hand caressing his tummy softly and in a stark contrast to the other hand that is striping Castiel’s cock, almost aggressively, almost _desperately._

“So beautiful, Dean. You are so good and so endlessly beautiful.” Castiel’s hands sweeps up over his heart as he speaks, and his voice is thick and shuddering and breaking off in places, and it’s clear that he must be one step away from his own orgasm, which must also be the reason why he’s starting with that kind of talk again.

“Trusted me so well and let me do what he talked about and mm–” Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, a shiver wrecking his body, and when his gaze is open and focused on Dean’s face again, the hand on his cock moves even faster. His other hand fumbles for Dean’s green tie, but doesn’t tug on it, just touches it, strokes over it and Dean’s tight nipples next to it. “Did what I asked you to, while I got to taste you and – _mh –_ hear you. Your sweet sounds. And next time, I wanna _see_ you, see you enjoy yourself, and I wanna kiss you then. Kiss you until you feel good, kiss you with me inside you, kiss you while we– oh, _Dean!”_

Warm spurts of come shoot out between Castiel’s furiously working hand, some of it catching on his fingers, getting them sticky yet not slowing them down, while the better part lands right where Castiel must have intended it to: on Dean’s pudgy and heaving tummy, still sated by the dinner Castiel had made for him, even more his now, inside and out marked by him, filled with him.

The sight of Castiel above him like this is almost too much, his wild yet fond eyes and the deep flush all over his face and chest and that thick and imposing cock unloading itself on Dean, because of Dean, _for_ Dean. It’s enough to make Dean’s dick twitch where it lies in its black curls and own mess, but nothing more.

Because he’s sated enough already. Despite Castiel’s show and the potential of another round, there’s no need for either. Or anything else. Because in this moment, there is nothing Dean could want for.

*

Both their bellies stick together like this, and who would have seen it coming that Castiel James Novak was a cuddler? Just a few moments after coming all over Dean and running his fingers through the mess on his tummy, he collapsed on top of him, drew Dean into an embrace that covered his whole body and started kissing his neck. But none of those I-want-you-kisses from before, more like… thank-you-kisses maybe? It’s strange to think that, but with how sweet and soft they are, almost more breaths than kisses, they might as well be.

But that started at least five minutes ago, and as far as Dean’s experience goes, this is about the time most guys come down from their highs and get a grip of themselves again, which usually includes patting their sex partners on the shoulder and trying to discreetly get away from them. Back when Dean was still in the scene, he often didn’t even get that, or an orgasm. As soon as his Doms were done – coming on his face or inside him or wherever they damn well pleased –, the whole scene was done. No matter if the same was true for Dean.

That’s why it’s better to be proactive now and save himself the hurt and Castiel a potentially awkward, but surely posed polite situation.

Dean sighs.

“Hey, uhm, Cas– tiel?”

“Hmhm?” Castiel replies into his skin, pleased and somewhat reminiscent of a very happy cat. His kisses don’t cease, in any case.

“Can you let me up?” Dean wiggles a bit to further illustrate by how he’s completely covered by Castiel’s warm and heavy body and how he couldn’t just roll out from under him. All of which, Dean supposes, feels nice in its own way.

“Do you need to use the bathroom?” Castiel slurs out between sloppy kisses, clearly still riding the afterglow and appearing as entirely unwilling to let go.

Dean files that away for the future: Castiel likes to cuddle after sex, and for more than just five minutes. He’s also just as touchy-feely after as during sex, and he is very much into kissing. Which is nice to think about in general, because despite his hang-ups, Dean enjoys all of these things quite a lot as well, but they also make him wary. Because on the one hand, there must have been many people with whom Castiel has lied entwined just like this, which makes his stomach drop in jealousy and some childish need to feel special, and on the other hand, some guys are just like that on occasion, whenever they feel like it. Sweet on the one day, rough and angry on the other. Dean just hopes Castiel is not like that. That he will still be kind and appreciative of him once he has gotten around to truly using Dean, that he will still not want to call Dean names.

“Uh, yes,” Dean replies, because it’s true, in a sense. He doesn’t want to pee, but he still needs to _use_ the bathroom, technically. For cleaning up and probably dressing, too. It’s been a couple of times that he washed away the come on him or between his legs and came back into the room naked while the other guy was already dressed and smoking by the bedside, and it always made Dean feel vulnerable. He also always disliked the smell of smoke, associates it with too much alcohol and yellow teeth, but he usually didn’t stick around enough for it to get into his shirt or hair.

Castiel makes to move with a groan and the sticky sound of their bellies, his lips finally letting go of Dean’s neck, although his hands still linger a bit longer on his upper arm and hip, and he rolls off.

As quickly as he can, Dean rolls away himself, the couch still having too much of a give to just sit up like a normal person, and his feet don’t even touch the ground when he’s already snatched his dress shirt in his hands. Trying to keep his butt as firmly planted on the sofa as possible – that is, _not_ bent over –, he also picks up his pants and briefs and right as he tries to search for his necktie, he becomes aware of it still hanging loosely of his neck. He swallows. _Right._

He shuffles off the couch, his clothing in a tight grip, and smiles weakly back at Castiel, who seems a bit dumbfounded. “So, I guess I’ll just.” Dean gesticulates towards his sticky and marked up tummy, and just like that, he feels self-conscious about the soft pudge of it again. He moves to carry his clothes in front of it, being careful not to let the fabric touch the come. Castiel watches him attentively. “Y’know?”

“You want to clean up,” Castiel guesses slowly, eyebrows raised. He sounds almost disappointed at that, and it makes Dean wonder just how much that guy must love to see his come all over another person’s skin. Or maybe he dislikes that Dean lied, in a sense. Bent the truth to get away from him. Or maybe something else entirely.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“By yourself?”

“Uhh.” The question takes him back a bit because – _of course,_ how else?

“If you prefer doing the clean-up yourself, then that’s fine, of course.” Castiel nods at himself. “I was simply wondering if maybe, you would be interested in taking a bath together, in allowing me to wash you and make sure that you are alright.” Castiel’s smile is barely more than a twitch of his lips, a small, shy thing. “If you think that too intimate, I would understand, of course. I have just grown just fond of bathing as a part of Aftercare, as it combines inspecting your body with non-sexual intimacy.”

As weird as it sounds, it’s also appealing. Yet, “Aftercare?”

“Yes.” Castiel squints at him, that assessing look returning to his eyes. It’s not unkind or anything, but it still makes Dean squirm uncomfortably where he stands. “You do know what that is, don’t you?”

Dean huffs out a breath. “Huh, uh, yeah, yes, ‘course I do. It’s ‘psychological or physical care either a Dominant or submissive receives after playing in kink, BDSM, or fetish situations’,” he quotes.

“That is correct.” Castiel still doesn’t seem satisfied, though. Maybe Dean didn’t deliver what he read too well. “What does your Aftercare usually include, Dean? I want to make sure you feel as good and comfortable as possible. Knowing your routine as well as mine would make it easier to combine them and to make sure both of us receive what we need.”

“Uh- uhm.” Dean hedges, and Cas remains patiently silent.

Thing is, Dean can’t give him a straight answer, because there’s little to no experience in Aftercare to draw from and the examples listed on the internet pages where he read up on proper BDSM etiquette simply won’t come to mind. He draws a blank. So, all he can do is shrug weakly and say, “Usually, not. Not much.”

Castiel just looks at him, in the same way he has looked at him whenever he exposed some part of that past that, for some reason, won’t quit feeling shameful to Dean. That is too difficult to properly think about, to put into words, to even acknowledge to himself. It’s annoying – almost as annoying as that, despite Castiel’s attempts to appear neutral, there’s still some lingering traces of pity in his eyes whenever it comes to this. Yes, beneath the heat that always arises and the hard edge of caring, there’s _pity_ there. For a man who should know better now, but apparently– doesn’t.

“Then, what would you like to do?” Castiel asks as he heaves himself up from the sofa, with the grace of someone who must have done this many times before in his life and has mastered the tricks and traps of this monster of comfort. His whole clothing is only ruffled, the fly already zipped up again, and it only furthers Dean’s feelings of being naked, laid bare in every sense of the word.

Castiel, for his part, seems to pick up on it, too. Which is probably easier than it should be, what with the man he just spend the better part of the evening lavishing with attention still stands in front of him, naked and bearing his semen, clutching his clothing and taking a step back.

Castiel remains where he is, at the edge of the sofa.

“Dean?”

“I don’t know,” Dean suddenly bursts out, ashamed and frustrated with himself. “I don’t know what I would like to do. My former Doms, they– they left me to care for myself most of the time. Some of the would hold me after an especially intense scene, but only if I asked them to, and I–” I didn’t, _couldn’t._

There’s a deep crease between Castiel’s eyebrows, right where he furrows them. He picks up a deep-blue afghan from the sofa, then steps away from it, but slowly, and doesn’t bother to silence Dean or pry about what he said. So Dean keeps going on his own.

“I would usually clean myself up and get out of there. No reason to stay if the scene’s over and I wasn’t needed anymore, right?” He laughs, and he expects to sound bitter, but he just sounds broken. “Most of the Doms I picked up on the internet or some random clubs, so there was no obligation for them to go up and beyond and take care of me or whatever, so, yeah, I don’t know. I sincerely don’t know what I’d like to do for Aftercare.”

“Wrong,” Castiel says gently, and as slow as his steps. He only resumes speaking once he has reached a confused Dean, who only backs away half a step, but otherwise doesn’t deny Castiel this closeness. Castiel smiles. “There is always an obligation, regardless of where you have found your play partner, how long you have known each other or what you did during the scene. It’s always the job of the Dominant to take care of their submissive. As it is the job of the submissive to take care of the Dominant. We take care of each other. Because if you allow someone to take pleasure in your body, the very least they have to do is to help you clean up and make sure none of their _traces_ remain,” he presses his last three words out between his teeth, his eyes suddenly looking angry, dangerous. For a moment there, Dean is scared that this anger is directed at him, that Castiel could be disgusted with the idea of other men having left their traces on him, as he has experienced before.

But then, Castiel carefully unfolds the afghan, inspects it for a second until lifting it up above and around Dean’s shoulders, smiling once more when Dean remains still and just lets him, allows him to put this expensive blanket around his body and cover it, cover him with it, despite the come and sweat and whatever else Dean might be dirty with.

“As is making sure that not just your body, but also your mind comes out of your encounter unscathed. Which includes talking to you, praising you for how _well_ you did,” Castiel sighs, and his eyes look fond, “holding you for as long as you need it, and checking in later on as well, to assure that you didn’t drop.”

Dean curls his fingers into the soft and probably impossibly expensive cloth around his shoulders, pulling it tighter around his still-sullied body. “I know,” in a voice that is neither sulking nor annoyed, just small.

“I know you do.” Castiel sways that bit closer, back into a space that Dean is now happy to leave to him, where their warmths mingle and share. “I know you _know._ But I want to _show_ you.” He tucks a slightly longer strand of stray hair back behind Dean’s ear and doesn’t stop softly smiling at him. “If you are uncomfortable with letting me bathe or hold you, that is fair. But I will still insist on talking with you now and checking in later. We need to discuss this scene anyway, at some point.” His thumb traces along the soft curve of Dean’s cheek, and now that he is allowed to move again and give in to his need to follow the longed-for touches, Dean leans into Castiel palms. Whose smile grows with this simple reaction. “I would be very glad if I could take care of you in any way possible, Dean, especially right now. But I still want it to be on both our terms. I have very few reservations, so whatever you want should be fine.”

Dean lets out a soft sigh. One that makes his shoulders sag in the beginnings of relaxation. “What else do you usually do for Aftercare?” Dean asks. He’s too exhausted to keep up arguing, and he’s even too exhausted to formulate his question in any way that won’t make him hear about all the things Castiel has done with other, more precious people.

“Apart from the juice and water that I will insist you drink, there’s many things we could do,” Castiel replies in a democratic, thankfully neutral way. The tips of his fingers card through Dean’s hair, and then there’s a slight scratching there, too, right against Dean’s scalp, and it feels so heavenly that Dean makes deep sound of pleasure. Castiel laughs at that, pleased. “I would also offer you something to eat any other time, but I think you should still be full enough from the casserole.”

Dean smiles sleepily and rubs his cheek into Castiel’s hand. “It was good.”

“That’s nice of you to say, but we both know that’s not quite true.”

They laugh softly at that, just enough as deadpan truths usually merit.

“What else?”

“I could massage you, we could watch TV or read a book together, we could play games or just cuddle for some more time.” Dean feels a tint of pink creep into his cheeks at that. “Whatever you feel like doing, we can do.” Dean nods, fighting against how much heavier his eyelids seem to become. There’s all that anxiety and adrenaline slowly seeping away, and he can feel how it begins to truly drain him. Thankfully, Castiel suggests in a kind tone and with a smile, “We could also just go to bed after cleaning you up, if that’s what you want.”

This has Dean attentive again, but he’s too sluggish now to react with full-blown disbelief. “You want me to sleep here?”

“If that’s what you want,” Castiel repeats patiently.

Dean thinks of having Castiel clean him up, always with that fond smile and a warm washcloth and maybe some more nice words for him. Thinks of having Castiel dress him in pajamas or just some warm night clothes and having him lie down next to him, maybe cuddle him even again, just like he suggested. Maybe Dean’s lucky and ‘if that’s what you want’ also includes some more kisses and being the little spoon. Yes, he could sleep like this, get to doze off in Castiel’s arms. It’s a possibility he never considered nor think he could have, but now that he knows it’s in the cards for him, there’s he suddenly _needs_ it.

And maybe once his phone alarm goes off early in the morning and brings him back to reality, he will regret staying with the man with whom he had sex and who’s also his boss, but right now, it seems like there’s nothing he would rather do.

“Can we, uhm, take a short bath and then go to sleep?”

The crinkles around Castiel’s eyes reappear as he takes Dean in and he looks almost proud at him for saying this. So proud, in fact, that he rewards Dean with some more head scratching and a glowing smile. “Of course we can,” he says, and in the back of Dean’s head, the little words Everything and Anything buzz.

But he doesn’t think about that, not right now. All Dean can think about is that he is glad that he has chosen as he did, because not only seems Castiel happy that this is what they will do now, wash and bathe and cuddle each other, but he himself can’t help but be genuinely _happy_ as well.


	10. X

When Dean moved into his apartment, he didn’t bother to care whether or not it had a bath tub. In all his life, he was never that big on bathing anyway, considered it a waste of time as much as of water, so it made no difference to him that there was nothing but a shower stall in his current apartment. He didn’t need anything else; after all, he hadn’t felt the need to soak in a tub in all the time he lived there.

But there might be reason to change his stance on bathing now. He’s not sure whether it’s because he hasn’t taken a bath in so long or because of the circumstances, but in this very moment, the thought of not having a bathtub for himself seems almost painful. Then again, his immense pleasure actually _might_ be derived from the circumstances indeed, not from the concept of going home and pointlessly sitting around in hot water.

Because even with a tub of his own, there would be no Castiel coming along with it. No gentle hands that led him into the bathroom and let in the water and prepared it with salts and soaps and that coaxed him into the tub, keeping Dean steady with a sure grip and little caresses along the way.

Dean would have to do the cleaning by himself, too. Whereas here, Castiel did a quick, precursory wiping off of the dried come on Dean’s belly and then took the sponge to his skin as soon as Dean was in the water and he was too, where he washed his body in endless care. There would be none of that had Dean a tub of his own. And what would be the use of one, then, if all this was lacking, if there was no beautiful and tender man sitting in front of him first in order to bathe him and then sitting behind him second to allow Dean to half-float, half-lie on him and to rest his head on Castiel’s shoulder.

Maybe there’s no comfort to be found in the act of bathing itself; but it’s to be found in Castiel.

Said man hums some slow, maybe self-invented song in the back of his throat, while he keeps a loose grip around Dean’s waist and uses the other hand to pet over Dean’s thighs and side, occasionally coming up to his face as well, where he does nothing more than to cup it. Every now and then, Castiel’s nose nuzzles away from Dean’s wet hair to press his lips against Dean’s temples, but Dean is too exhausted to acknowledge it instead of just enjoy it beyond allowing and enjoying it.

His throat is far from dry – while Castiel was running the bath, he made Dean drink a glass of water and juice each and then gave him a glass filled with something fizzy he claimed to contain magnesium as well – and yet, Dean doesn’t feel like he could talk. He’s floating still, figuratively and literally, and all he wants it to enjoy it, not sully the moment with heavy-handed and superfluous words. Because unlike so many times before, there’s no bad come-down no, no being left alone with his shame and a possibly aching body, just a continuing demonstration of care. In which he wants to keep soaking for as long as possible.

Preferably forever.

“How are you feeling?” Castiel asks in a voice so low and quiet that Dean can only hear it because Castiel’s lips are brushing right up against the tip of his ear, speaking directly into it. The shiver that comes along with it settles deep in Dean’s bones, goes beyond the physical sensation of it.

“Mhmhmm,” is all Dean is able to reply, preferring instead to shuffle more into Castiel’s grip around him and to turn his head, so that his cheek is lying against the curve of Castiel’s neck and his temple at the bolt of his jaw.

Castiel lets out a soft, breathy sound that has an amused ring to it and presses his lips against the top of Dean’s head. He doesn’t chastise Dean for his lack of a proper answer.

“We have been in here for half an hour now,” Castiel says, and as much as Dean believes him, he wouldn’t be able to tell if it has been indeed half an hour now or if it have been five minutes or five hours instead. The time in here, that warm and calm bliss, feels as eternal as it feels fleeting. “We should probably get out soon and go to bed.”

Dean just sighs, his breath fanning against the dip of Castiel’s throat; he doesn’t want to get out just yet. As tempting as the idea of sharing a bed with Castiel is, it’s also a marker of how they are one step closer to morning and therefore to ending this. Despite it all, as far as Dean knows, Castiel is simply an overwhelmingly attentive Dom, one who will take care of him in every way possible after and during a scene, but not necessarily one who will want to have a repeat performance of tonight in the future.

“I suppose we can stay for five more minutes,” Castiel easily offers as a compromise, “but no more than that. Both of us seem tired enough that we shouldn’t take the risk of falling asleep in here.”

“Y’won lemme,” Dean slurs out, needing to use all of his remaining energy to do so. He knows by now that Castiel will take care of him, if only for the evening at the very least, and that he is safe with him. Castiel won’t let them drown.

“That’s right. That’s why I said that we should leave soon.”

“Mmh.”

“I promise you won’t have to do anything.” Castiel breathes slowly, and it’s as grounding the little circles his free hand draws into Dean’s skin. “You just have to continue doing what you already did; trusting me to take care of you. I will help you out of the bath tub and dress you and carry you to bed. You will be warm again in no time at all and finally able to rest for as long as you want to.”

“Hm-you.”

“Yes. With me.”

It’s sounds reasonable, appealing even. As afraid as Dean is of the spell breaking with the first light of the morning, he’s also sleepy and comfortable and wants to make the best of what he has, for as long as he has it. He’s always liked the few times he got to sleep next to another person, lover or no, and to be allowed to not only share the same bed but probably also Castiel’s intimate space, to remain in his arms and affection for the night. Is all he could want as a final instance of this evening, should this be all he will get. Maybe he will wake up before Cas and use the time before he will wake up too to bathe in Castiel’s proximity and really take it in, process what his mind is too sluggish to understand right now. Too hazy to fully appreciate just how good he’s got it in this very moment. With his mind, that is. Going by how secure and comfortable he _feels,_ his heart might just get it.

“‘kay,” Dean accepts on the tail-end of a yawn.

“Good,” Castiel murmurs, yet doesn’t make move to get up, “in five more minutes then.”

Dean doesn’t even bother to respond to that, just lets himself enjoy the moment and the small bonus of time. The hand that drew circles into his skin mere minutes before is now stroking over Dean’s chest and belly, yet so slowly that the movement might entirely stem from the water. There’s certainly no hurry in the thumb brushing over Dean’s nipples without further intention or in how Castiel’s pinky moves over the edge of the bush of coarse hair that’s darkened by the water, scritching it just so.

It’s almost enough to lull Dean to sleep.

When Dean blinks up at Castiel with heavy, droopy eyelids, fighting a losing battle to keep them open, he sees Castiel’s eyes, closed although fluttering, and his lips curved up into a small smile.

Knowing that nothing bad will happen, Dean smiles a little smile of his own, nuzzles his nose into Castiel’s neck and lets his sleepy eyes fall shut.


	11. XI

He wakes up due to an absence of warmth.

Whereas before, whenever he woke up during the night for a few moments, he easily fell asleep again thanks to the weight and warmth of Castiel around or even half-way on top of him, and then, over the course of the night, they found the comfiest position in Castiel pressed up against Dean’s back and with his arms around him, both of them on the side, Dean’s butt against the soft curve of Castiel’s crotch and belly, there’s a distinct lack of that now. There’s no arms around Dean and no thigh pressed between his, no hand cupping his tummy or resting on his heart. Just Dean and the sheets. Or so it seems.

Because as he groans with an acute sense of loss and rolls onto his side to sit up and take in more than his bleary eyes can spot at first glance, he suddenly becomes aware of the slumped figure sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands and his back turned towards Dean. He looks dejected from the back, the very picture of regret.

Dean’s stomach drops.

Is that finally it? Has Castiel finally realized that any effort and time spent on Dean is wasted? That any other sub would do just as well or probably better? Is this already the end of a short-lived dream that Dean knew to be too good to be true from the very beginning?

“Cas?” Dean asks, softly, so much dread pooling in his guts that he’s unaware of shortening Castiel’s name and uncaring of whether he is even allowed to, too preoccupied is he by the man sitting there and looking dejected. Dean had hoped for maybe some more time until Castiel would realize that this would lead too nothing, that someone like him is far to good for the likes of Dean and that there are thousands of subs that are better behaved and better looking. Not that difficult, after all. Yeah, how Dean would have wished to be woken up by wandering hands and hungry kisses and the passion for one more roll in the hay.

“Dean,” Castiel just rumbles out in reply, but he doesn’t sound put out or dejected or anything at all, maybe a tad sleepy. Maybe even pleased. He turns around where he sits, his face still sleep-dumb and his eyes blinking so slowly, they might as well stay closed for another nap, but there’s no trace of anything bad-meaning on his features. He doesn’t look like he wants to shoo Dean out of bed and out of his life – instead, there’s a slow smile spreading on his lips as he takes Dean in, his body that’s still covered by the blanket and the pajama Castiel lent him, all of him probably looking just as warm and messy as Castiel does. Castiel also takes in Dean face, still twisted in anxiety. And frowns at that.

“What’s wrong, Dean?”

“Uhm.” Dean neither wants to come across as even more insecure and needy than he already does, and he feels kind of stupid now for assuming that Castiel would be any less considerate now than last night. Even if Castiel had come to the conclusion that the little arrangement between him and Dean wouldn’t work out, he’d still be kind and open about it. That, he’s at least sure about. Castiel wouldn’t leave Dean in his bed by himself and maybe send him a message on his phone or write him a note about how he had fun, but that that was all there was, thank you for the fuck. Castiel’s not that kind of man. He’s much better than that – than anyone, any _Dom,_ who came before him.

“Are you hurting?” Castiel asks, more concerned now, leaning back so that he’s somewhat closer to Dean, and he looks like he’s one second away from climbing onto the bed and over Dean’s body again to inspect him thoroughly. And as nice as that thought is, Dean still feels too raw for anything like this, for too much contact, especially any sexual kind. Stupidly enough and even though what they did last night was nowhere near physically taxing, he feels drained now, exhausted. In a pleasant way, he thinks. But he can’t be fully sure of that. For some reason, he’s afraid of even the most tender of touches being too much right now, too likely to hurt him or scrap him open. So he just shakes his head.

“No, I’m– I’m fine. There’s nothing that should hurt, after all, is there?” Dean jokes, and it soothes the worried lines of Castiel’s face a little.

“I hope so. But you know that if you don’t feel entirely well – physically as well as mentally – I trust you to tell me.”

“Ah, yeah.” And Dean still doesn’t know whether he’d dare to tell him – just yet and even now. If Dean would trust to tell Castiel. “But you know that goes both ways, right? That if anything’s not right or you’re not, uhm, satisfied, you have to tell me.”

Castiel furrows his brow at him. “I assure you, I will.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, of course” Castiel confirms, and he sounds confused. “Dean, what is this about?”

Dean has the sudden urge to bite his lip and keep quiet. Because he’s already pretty sure that what he wants to ask about is nothing. That there are many reasons for things people do and that he shouldn’t be narcissistic enough to assume that all and any of them have to do with him, but he can’t help feeling this way nonetheless. So, he can’t help but ask, “What’s the… head in hands about?”

Castiel’s eyebrows climb higher, not understanding. It makes Dean flush, yet doesn’t keep him from just waving off what he just asked and to just go on. He needs to know.

“When I woke up, you were sitting there with your head in your hands, looking kinda… deep in thought. Or desperate or something. I don’t know. Unhappy, maybe.” And is he still now and just putting on a show? Or was this just one of those things in Dean’s head again?

It takes a moment for Castiel to register the words, apparently, because he just looks at Dean with still the same confusion and then his face brightens and he huffs out a laugh that may or may not sound fond. “I was thinking, yes, but not _‘deep in thought’._ And certainly not _‘unhappy’._ Quite the opposite.” _  
_

He actually curls his fingers into air quotes as he talks, and Dean dies a little on the inside. He already knew that Castiel is a huge dork, of course, from months of working and eating lunch together, but the contrast between the guy who ate him out and spanked him just last night because he dared move without his permission and between this grumpy, air-quote guy is so stark, it’s almost ridiculous.

“I was considering getting up and preparing breakfast for you, to wake you up with coffee and to serve it to you in bed. And I meant to do this ever since your alarm went off.”

Dean is the one to be a bit confused at that now because huh, he didn’t even hear his alarm going off nor did he notice Castiel probably shuffling away to turn it off and putting his phone on the nightstand, where it is currently lying.

“But it was already difficult to, ah,” Castiel actually pauses at that, blinking away from Dean for the duration of his little pause, and when he looks back at Dean, there’s a soft red hue to his cheeks, “to leave our embrace.” And Christ, Dean joins him in his blushing at that, mortified. He doesn’t even want to know what their _embrace_ entailed, when he thinks back to each time he snuggled in closer to Castiel during the night and when he considers just how he must have behaved for Castiel, who’s had his tongue up his ass mere hours before that, to blush. Did Dean humpf the guy in his sleep, or worse, did he cling all needily to him?

“And to make my way into the kitchen then,” Castiel thankfully continues. “I am not an early riser, as you know.” Which Dean, as his personal assistant and the unlucky one who has to interact with Castiel when he’s still tired and grumpy in the morning, of course does. It’s also something Dean should have taken into consideration right away, instead of jumping to a conclusion that would make any early-blooming teenaged girl roll her eyes at him. Charlie would probably laugh at him if she knew of his angsty good morning moment.

“Yeah, no, I get it,” Dean says hastily. “No deep contemplations about last night or whatever, just the usual ‘I hate waking up, why am I even alive’ spiel. Got it.”

“Yes, that’s accurate. Good.” Castiel’s lips twitch up at the almost imperceptible way Dean’s body tenses at that last little word. “And seeing as you are already awake now and still in bed, you are free to decide whether you want me to serve you your breakfast by the bedside or whether you want to eat it at the table.”

“Aren’t you afraid of getting crumbs in your sheets?” Because Dean usually is. Not that he regularly indulges in eating anything that could crumble – like bread, cupcakes, bagels, or whatever else other people tend to eat in the morning – because he sticks to protein and veggie shakes that he also prefers to eat at the table or on the go. But even with them, he would be afraid to spill them and sully the sheets. Which is a rather reasonable fear, Dean thinks.

“Meg is scheduled to come tomorrow and change the sheets in any case, so you don’t need to worry about that. What is of more importance now is what you would prefer.”

“I want to help preparing breakfast anyway.”

“Which you can feel free to. But where do you want to eat it afterwards?”

It feels like Castiel already knows the answer and just tries to coax it out of Dean, despite his hang-ups and polite modesty. Because he still feels a bit too exhausted to want to sit upright an proper at a table, and the idea of lounging around in bed with Castiel a bit longer, to spend some more time where they just spent a night, is far too appealing. Maybe it will even bring back that spark of desire in Dean that still seems asleep for now, so that Castiel could just press him down into the mattress and take him right there, on the soft and inviting sheets and amidst crumbs that are of less importance than him.

But what Dean feels at that is less a spark of desire and more the heat of embarrassment, because wow, had Charlie heard what he just thought, she wouldn’t just laugh, but probably never let it go. And not even in a mocking way, no, she’d move beyond the giggles and winks and go straight to ‘I’m so happy for you’ and ‘That was so adorable’ and ‘I hope he will take good care of you’.

Christ. All Dean was going for was a guy who would tie him up and spank him every other weekend, not thoughts like this, of being eaten out and thoroughly pleased by his dorky and dominant boss who wants to serve him breakfast in bed the morning after.

“In here,” Dean admits with a voice that won’t quite keep its full volume. It’s daunting to speak his mind, sure, but as equally daunting to think of what it will entail. That is, to spend a night and a morning in bed, enjoying breakfast and each other’s presence and maybe even a bit more. It’s unfamiliar, but not in a bad way – it’s _thrilling._

Castiel might think so as well because the smile he gifts Dean with in return to his admission is so easy and wide, he looks like he’s on the verge of laughing to fully express his joy or whatever. Like children do. He doesn’t laugh, though, reins himself in again, so that all that remains is a pleased little smile. “Then that’s where we’ll eat.”

And Dean knows that if it were still last night, that very same gentle tone would have been followed by an abundance of praise and confident touches, by thanking Dean to have been honest about what he wanted. But sadly, there is none of that now. Well, ‘none of that’ might not be entirely correct either, because Castiel’s expression looks like all of those soft words sounded, pleased and proud, and even if he doesn’t, he looks like one second away from slipping into words of praise again. But he doesn’t, just keeps on smiling at Dean all affectionately, and it should probably be enough.

But, it’s not enough. Dean – greedy and selfish as he is – can’t help but wish for Castiel’s hand, resting against the sheets, to pet his hair and hold his waist and for Castiel to kiss him again and hold him and call him a good boy once more.

He realizes then, with Castiel getting up from the mattress and the ripple of the movement softly swaying Dean where he still waits for Castiel’s warmth and cradling hands to return, that despite his intentions to remain distant and accept that their little arrangement will be short-lived and meaningless, he’s also emotionally invested. He’s already hooked.

Well, _shit._

*

They start off breakfast by sitting opposite each other. After Dean has clumsily helped an about equally as clumsy Castiel to prepare some food – nothing more special than some fruit, yoghurt that is hopefully still good and two small bowls of overly sweet and unhealthy cornflakes – they returned to the bedroom, Castiel with the tablet and Dean with the coffee in hands, chatting about a TV program about the production that both of them have coincidentally watched.

They move carefully to sit down on the bed again, trying not to spill the coffee or the milk in the bowls, and deposit themselves on either side of the bed. Some random side, neither ‘Dean’s’ or ‘Castiel’s’, as the night before, there was also no such thing. Neither when they went to bed – because Castiel carried and placed a still deeply relaxed and bathed Dean onto the same side of the mattress that he himself took – nor when they slept – because they were entangled with each other, in the middle of the bed, never straying far enough to have either of them claim any side as theirs. They were a pile of limbs that came to look like a couple of spoons eventually, but unintentionally.

As unintentionally as they drift closer the longer their breakfast takes. There’s Dean starting with his cereal first thing, whereas Castiel saves his cereal for the end because he, grossly enough, claims that it tastes best all soppy and sugary. Which is why he begins with the fruit and some yoghurt, eating it slowly and savouring, and somewhere between Castiel enjoying his first strawberries and enjoying Dean the kind of breakfast he hasn’t allowed himself in years, the distance between them starts to shrink.

When Dean can find no space on the tablet to put his empty bowl anymore, he moves closer to stack it beneath Castiel’s still full one. When Castiel moans around the apparently very fresh blueberries he plucks piece for piece, Dean simply has to have a taste, too. So he scoots closer, takes the berries from Castiel’s open palm the first few times, then lets him put them onto his tongue directly. The tip of which licks too often over the length of Castiel’s fingers, his darkened blue eyes watching his slightly smeared mouth attentively.

And slowly, all the yoghurt and berries are gone and only Castiel’s bowl of cornflakes is left. And Dean, as honest as Castiel has told him to be, acknowledges that he’s still hungry – and Castiel apparently still is, too – so Castiel offers to share his bowl with him. Which they do.

But instead of sharing the bowl like any proper adults would, there’s that warmth growing in Dean’s belly again, turning him as playful and ridiculous as Castiel suddenly is as well.

Because instead of simply eating the cornflakes, there’s playful fighting over the spoon and soft presses against each other and feeding one another. And before Dean even realizes it, his lips are on Castiel’s and his arms are slung around him, the now also empty other bowl someplace Dean doesn’t care about, too taken in by the way Castiel grabs for him in return, pulls him into his body with a quiet moan and hands that cradle Dean’s head. They are just kissing there, tasting each other again after a whole night of not doing so, and it’s slow and unhurried, almost juvenile.

But then Dean decides to go that step further, that one step he isn’t absolutely certain he wants to take right now but is strongly in favour of, so he changes things up a bit, pushes against Castiel’s torso to have him lay back, and Castiel goes ridiculously easily, just allows Dean to handle him any way he wants. All Castiel does is watch.

And in the next moment, Dean is sitting on top of him, feeling clumsy and shy about how exposed he is like this but still craving the gentle rubbing of their cocks, both of them sporting more than a chubby, and how even nicer it feels as he slowly moves forth and back, making the already plumb length still hiding underneath Castiel’s clothes grow.

It feels nice, stoking. And some primal part of Dean longs to finally see all of Castiel this time; he was in too much of a haze to get a proper look at him when both of them were naked and bathing, and all Dean can remember is a nest of wild, dark hair and not much else. But Dean wants to know and see and _feel._

So, he rolls his hips forward once and twice and a third time that has Castiel throw his head back and groan and that has Dean smile widely because it’s such a powertrip to see what kind of immediate effect he has on Castiel. But Dean doesn’t get any further than this, because as soon as he starts to try to grind his hips in a little circle, putting proper pressure on both their cocks to get both of them off eventually, there are hands fastly grabbing his hips.

It’s a strange reminder of last night, because then, Castiel’s hands were there to keep Dean still, too. To keep him fixed until Castiel had given him all he wanted to give, and taken so little in return. But there’s no play and punishment sparking in Castiel’s eyes when he gazes up at Dean now, his breath already heavy.

“We shouldn’t do this right now.” The admission seems to take a lot out of Castiel; he almost sounds pained as he speaks.

“Why not?” Dean demands hotly.

He realizes he must sound like a petulant child, but with the memories of last night still lingering and his length still pressed up against Castiel’s, he’s not sure he can take rejection right now. Because he was just on top, could see how easily affected Castiel was by him, and he doesn’t want to give up that high right away – Castiel’s erection is more honest than what the man himself could probably ever say, his hunger much more palpable than the already hazy feelings of last night, threatening to diminish already.

Dean wants to keep feeling wanted, dreads what will come once it wears off. Especially since this might happen faster than he thought. Because Castiel is already pushing him off of him – he may keep his arms connected to Dean’s body and may try to set him aside as gently as possible, but there is no mistaking that what Dean wants is not on the table right now.

And Castiel can smile at him as apologetically as he wants to, it still won’t help against the sinking feeling in Dean’s stomach.

“Because,” Castiel begins in a voice that is undoubtedly meant to soothe but only furthers Dean’s agitation, “we have to talk about last night first. We will have to discuss what was good and what wasn’t, so that he know what to avoid and to repeat. Also, we will have to set boundaries.” He sweeps a warm hand up Dean’s arm, and Dean wishes he would keep it there, grip him with it and direct Dean with it. He doesn’t, though. Instead, it wanders up to ghost over Dean’s face and hair, and then is lost. Along with Castiel, who pushes himself a little away from Dean, putting space between them. “As for what is allowed outside of scenes. In a personal setting, in the workplace, wherever. What both of us would be comfortable with.”

Dean clenches his eyes shut, the annoyance at this very reasonable objection overriding any possible feelings of rejections quickly.

Because Castiel is right, of course. They need to talk about this, define it on their own terms. They would have to if they were in a ‘real’ relationship – which they are definitely not –, but even more so when they are boss and personal assistant as much as Dom and sub. What innocent touches might be okay during play could be entirely unwanted or inappropriate outside of that. Whatever words might be uttered could lose their meaning as soon as the power exchange ends. Just because Dean wants to be close to Castiel and kiss him right now doesn’t mean Castiel wants the same – now or anytime outside of play.

Just because Dean craves any of that right now, it doesn’t give him permission to try and take it.

“You’re right,” Dean also says out loud. Because Castiel should know that Dean gets it, and that he agrees.

“Thank you.” For a second, Castiel’s hands twitches and goes up, into the direction of where Dean now sits by himself. Nothing comes out of it, though, as the hand only hovers for that moment and then sinks again. Dean wants to chase that hand and have it on him again, as a reward for his simple little ‘You’re right’. Because apparently, that’s how low he’s fallen already, his wn resolve notwithstanding.

“You’re not about to break out the list again, are you?” Dean asks in an attempt to dispel his nerves, which seems to be working well enough on Castiel at least, as he laughs softly.

“I won’t go up and get it, if that is what you are afraid of. But I will put down everything we discuss now afterwards, so that we won’t forget any of it.”

“And give me a copy of it?”

The shimmer in Castiel’s eyes speaks enough of how he knows he’s being taunted, but that he also doesn’t mind. He easily goes along with it, just smiles at a slowly untensing Dean. “That goes without saying.”

Dean snorts, then looks down on the haphazardly shoved aside tablet and the still ruffled sheets. He already feels homely here, welcomed in a way that he hasn’t felt again since after he has moved out of his parents’ house. Maybe it’s because of the really soft sheets.

“Would you like to tell me what you liked about last night, then?”

“Uhm, I don’t know. Everything?” Because yep, there isn’t be a single thing he could complain about. “Talking about this is kinda– y’know.” He awkwardly gestured back and forth, basically indicating nothing.

“It might be a bit embarrassing at first, but it’s important that we can be frank about our scenes,” Castiel says. “If it is entirely too uncomfortable for you, we can also try to take another approach. You could write down your opinion or use the list – yes, that is what it’s here for – to show me what you liked. But if you want to continue our arrangement in any way, I consider it mandatory that we find a way to communicate. Whether written in the beginning or verbally. I need to know what you like and don’t like.” Castiel considers him for a moment, that blushy and crookedly grinning man whose embarrassment must be easy for all world to see. Castiel tilts his head to the side. “That is… if you are still interested?”

Dean can hear him try to sound unaffected, but there’s a soft downward slant to his eyes as much as the corners of his mouth as he speaks, and it’s clear that despite it all, Dean can’t just expect Castiel to look inside his head and see for himself. He needs to tell him about how much he liked what they did together, that there are things he would like to do even more of and that he generally would love nothing more than a repeat performance of last night. Many of those.

“O-of course I am.”

His little stutter seems not to abate Castiel’s doubts, only worsen them. “Really?” he asks, his forehead crinkled because of how high his eyebrows have climbed.

“Yes,” Dean replies with more determination and looks up, into Castiel’s eyes, only to find them already watching him. “I mean it. And I hope you liked it, too. Because I think it would be great if you wanted to keep this going and take me on as your sub.”

Castiel’s answering smile is brilliant and beautiful, all the more accentuated by his softly flushed cheeks. “I liked it, too,” he confirms in an uncharacteristically hushed tone, “you were wonderful. You have already surpassed any expectations I have had, and those were already high to begin with.”

“Really?” Dean echoes. “Even though I, y’know, moved against your command? You had to punish me. More than once.” How many times exactly, Dean wouldn’t be able to say, though.

“Yes. But that’s part of the play, isn’t it?” Castiel‘s smile turns into that of a cheeky little boy. “What is more important is that we had already talked about the kind of punishment beforehand, and just like you told me, you enjoyed what I did and when I applied it. I feel like this is definitely something we should explore; it was very exciting for me to spank you and it would be an immense pleasure if I could do more of it.”

And holy shit, Dean totally agrees there. So does his dick, if that little twitch in his pajama pants is anything to go by. “Yeah, I– I really liked it, too.” He takes a deep breath. No receiving without properly asking for it. “A lot, actually. I wouldn’t mind if we did that again. Maybe with me, uhm, over your desk or lap or something. Like, if you’re into that.”

Castiel’s answering laugh seems to be as much mirth as heady promise. “I can assure you, I am very much ‘into that’. And I look forward to spending a lot of time on finding out what feels best for you and what will make your skin look especially flushed and beautiful.”

Dean’s not sure if, just like the night before, discussing kinks is supposed to turn him on like this. At least yesterday, the feeling must have been pretty mutual, seeing as Castiel and him ended up playing out just what they discussed, but it seems unfitting now. Maybe because it’s morning or because Dean still feels a bit too raw to genuinely feel like being spanked nice and red already. He needs some time to go home and consider all of this in peace, probably. Nonetheless, all this talking turns him on in a probably more abstract way.

“What’s more,” Castiel continues, “you managed to enter some sort of subspace, and that during our first scene. From what I could father, you often slipped in and out of it and most of it probably spilled into the Aftercare.” He sounds like he’s not sure if that’s a good of bad thing, considering. “But to make it even that far is impressive. That you could enter any subspace at all and enjoy what I did.” He nods as he looks Dean deep in the eye. “It says a lot about your ability to trust me and you as a submissive.”

“Only good things, I hope?” Dean asks, and he hopes it comes across as teasing instead of like seeking reassurance that he didn’t seem _too easy_ yesterday. It’s a bit of a ridiculous notion, but Dean can’t let go of that fear, not entirely. Maybe he had been punished for being a slut one time too many.

“The best,” Castiel assures him.

There’s been so much praise for Dean until now, and he knows it’s not self-evident. That few Doms – or at least the Doms he used to be involved with – would bother to make sure that Dean feels so good about himself, at any given point in time. He manages to say kind things about Dean, even if he had to spank him for disobeying him during such easy instructions as ‘Stay still’, and he just keeps giving. Of course, this is also simply part of who Castiel is and how he usually behaves around Dean, not necessarily Castiel The Dom but Castiel The Person, yet still. Whatever Castiel says, he makes it sound effortless and honest, and Dean thinks he deserves to hear some of that, too.

“Regarding ‘the best’ – you were also the best. The best Dom I’ve ever had, I mean.” For some reason, this sounded not as clumsy in his head. The flush in his cheeks holds true as he squirms. “I could only trust you so easily because you never gave me any reason not to, but actively showed me that you would be good and fair to me if I did as you told me and as we had planned, and yeah,” he feels like he’s holding some dumb Oscar speech instead of thanking the man before him for spanking him and eating out his ass, “thank you.”

Castiel looks at him as if he’s one moment from saying something like ‘I hope you know these are the very basics of any BDSM relationship’ and all those things Dean has learnt by now, but still has never experienced applied to himself; that rift between knowledge and experience is still too big for Castiel’s treatment to be anything other than a pleasant surprise. Thankfully, Castiel doesn’t give him some lecture on kinky conduct, but just accepts Dean’s compliment.

“Thank you very much, Dean. I will work hard to give you reason to build on that trust and for me to remain ‘the best’.” Castiel sounds as lame as he does adorable. Possibly even a hint proud.

“I’m sure you’ll have no troubles with that,” Dean says, and means it. He has no doubt that Castiel will never let him down on his trust; and what a thing it is to be able to think that, after so many shitty Doms in his life, who never used to do anything but break his trust as much as his will. But Dean feels like he doesn’t have to be afraid of that now – Castiel has already proven that there’s an extent to which Dean can fearlessly trust him. He only has to keep proving it for whatever else they will do, for every further step of the way. Be good to Dean every time Dean works to be a good boy for him in return. And as demanding as it sounds, somehow Dean doesn’t believe that Castiel will do anything but ace it.

“Now,” Dean starts, letting the warm wave of anticipation and safeness wash over him, the corners of his mouth raising up into a small grin, “do you have any more of those cornflakes left?”


	12. XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: the faint beginnings of a subdrop, jealousy

The first few days of the next week feel nothing if not surreal. In the best of ways.

Dean’s floating through Monday and Tuesday, all of him feeling good and accepted, in an unfamiliar but exhilarating way. Castiel and him see each other on both days for long enough that they can exchange some secret smiles and little greetings, but unfortunately nothing more than that. Yet, even that is fine and the world is rosy and everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. Dean handles all his duties without a hitch and gains a few new customers, even garnering him some unwilling praise from Mr. Adler, who drops by without previous notice, probably trying to catch Dean off-guard, but only manages to catch him at the top of his game.

Dean doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt even nearly as good. He is full of energy and sleeps soundly through the nights. Every evening, Castiel sends him a message, wishing him a goodnight and hoping they will have the chance to eat lunch together the next day, even though neither on Monday nor on Tuesday, they manage. These text messages are, apart from their smiles and greetings, pretty much all Dean gets of Castiel, but he thinks nothing of it, just goes on happily.

Because it’s all good.

Things take a turn by Wednesday. As Dean doesn’t want to come across as someone who owns only one necktie and make people wonder about him and Castiel’s office in general, he decides not to use the one Castiel gave him that day. He feels naked with his red-and-white stripes, and strangely lonely, but there’s nothing to be done about that. Castiel isn’t in for the entire duration of the day because – as Dean scheduled for him – he’s away on a little business trip a few states over, and won’t be back until the middle of the next day.

Castiel sends him a sloppy message that evening that makes Dean believe that he might be drunk or otherwise occupied. He doesn’t mind, though, because Castiel signs off with an emoticon blowing a kiss, and the memory of how it felt to have Castiel truly press him down and kiss him passionately has Dean busy for the following quarter-hour. Once he’s done and needs to clean himself up, with nobody there to take care of it for him, he finds himself feeling somewhat hollow.

Thursday morning, Dean is by himself, but he’s looking forward to seeing Castiel again in only a few hours. Mr. Adler comes by again, gleefully explaining some minor error that Dean has supposedly made the day before, and commanding him to take care of it until the end of the day, even if it means he will has to stay late, if only to find that error and its effects by himself.

Castiel does come in around the end of noon, when afternoon is already on the verge of arriving and the shadows are getting longer. And when he comes to Dean’s desk to greet him, it’s the best Dean’s felt all day, almost as great as at the beginning of the week, despite Castiel’s quick glance to Dean’s lilac necktie and that trace of disappointment that seems to flit over his face.

Castiel doesn’t have any time to stay and chat, though, because he has to give his report of the trip to Mr. Adler, of all people, and that – along with two other meetings – takes him the rest of the afternoon.

By the time Castiel’s done, Dean is still busy with his obligatory duties of the day and hasn’t gotten around to doing that little extra work Adler has assigned him on top of it. Castiel offers to stay and help, and as much as Dean would want that, he’s afraid he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on work with Castiel nearby and would instead be distracted by need daydreams and tight pants, so he declines. Besides, he can see the dark shadows beneath Castiel’s eyes, probably a sign of how he had stayed out late the night before, drinking with the business partners he’s had to meet, and Dean knows he will need to catch up on some sleep. Castiel frowns but gives in and goes home.

When he sends Dean his message to wish him a goodnight that evening, Dean is still sitting behind his desk, frantically searching for that mistake he supposedly made. There’s no kiss emoticon in there this time, and Dean doesn’t find the error until after midnight.

The next morning, Castiel comes in as early and grumpy as usual and he smiles at Dean and they even have the time to chat for a couple of minutes. Dean asks Castiel about his trip, and Castiel provides all the details with an eyeroll and an exasperated huff about the business partners, their drinking habits and Mr. Adler’s reception of his results. He slows down a bit when Dean can’t manage to hide a huge yawn that goes on for a worryingly long time and then asks Dean if he’s alright and if he should’ve stayed the night before. Dean just waves him off with a smile that he hopes comes across as confident and not exhausted, and when Castiel frowns and starts to ask if Dean is alright, Mr. Adler steps into the office with a smug and decidedly too pleased grin, and whisks Castiel away.

They don’t see each other for lunch. Instead, Castiel goes to lunch with Balthazar Roche, the attractive head of a recently extremely successful upstarting company that Sandover intents to do business with, just like Dean has scheduled for him.

The lack of his green necktie feels all the more prominent and almost aching when Castiel and Roche come back after lunch, obviously in good spirits and with a hint of something very pleased in Castiel’s eyes, both taking a quick glance at Dean and then go back into Castiel’s office, where they stay for almost an hour. Dean can’t see inside because the blinds are closed – as they have been all day, so all he can do is wait. When they finally step out again, both of them seem even happier than before and Roche is laughing where Castiel is blushing.

Dean wants to curl up and cry or scratch all around his neck or kick Roche in the shin, but most of all, he wants to go home.

He reins himself in and only blinks a little faster when Castiel accompanies Roche downstairs into the entrance hall, Roche’s arm around Castiel’s shoulders, and fully immerses himself into his work instead. There’s a revised report he has to hand in to Adler, after all.


	13. XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck me, why has this gotten so long

“Dean?”

Dean glances up upon hearing his name spoken in that low, lovely voice, sounding so worried and close. Castiel is standing in front of his desk, brows furrowed, his trenchcoat already on and his briefcase at the ready, held in one hand. Going by his get-up, it’s obvious that he must be done for the day. A quick look at the clock tells Dean that he should be long done, too.

“Mr. Novak?” Dean asks back, mindful of being in the office, a public setting, and not in the intimacy of a warm and welcoming bed, in Castiel’s arms.

Castiel furrows his brows even more at that.

“Aren’t you done for the day?” Castiel asks, instead of commenting on the formal addressing.

“No, not yet. ‘Cause I made an error in a report I did recently, I had a little more to do and didn’t quite get around to doing everything I needed to. But no worries, I’ll be done soon enough,” Dean explains to the lapels of Castiel’s coat, somehow unwilling to look up higher. He feels embarrassed, though he’s pretty sure it’s not because of that Adler thing, but because of something else. He’s not entirely sure because of what. Maybe because he just finally wants this week to end; maybe because he just wants Castiel to touch him for the first time ever since they’d said goodbye at the door of Castiel’s apartment. Maybe because both of these things seem so close and yet so far.

“Is this about Adler? That ‘error’, I mean?” Castiel sounds like he thinks that error be be about as much bullshit as Dean did, but even then, there’s nothing Dean could’ve done about it. Not without Castiel, at the very least. He probably could have vetoed Adler’s nitpicking and told him to shove it, had he been around or had Dean asked him to. But Dean knows that if Castiel truly wants to become CEO one day, he shouldn’t have to deal with such petty issues or make an enemy out of Zachariah, who has big influence in his own rights. So, Dean will have to work a bit longer on a Friday night – big fucking deal.

“Yeah. But it’s done by now. Like I said, just catching up on stuff I didn’t get around to yet.”

“For my office?”

“Yes. For your appointments next week.”

“Then I should be able to help you with it.”

“What?” Dean sputters and feels like shooting Castiel a disapproving glance, but all he manages is to shake his head towards the dip of Castiel’s throat, daring to look up a tiny bit higher, and then drops his gaze again. “No, no. You’ve had more than enough to do this week. You should go home and rest and enjoy your weekend and let me take care of my work, like I’m paid to do.”

“I believe I have not been the only one who has had enough to do this week.” Castiel puts down his briefcase slowly and then steps around Dean’s desk with that same kind of deliberate movement. He approaches Dean with a sigh and with his arms remaining steadfast by his side, and with his voice all the gentler for it. “In fact, I am convinced that you have done much more than me or anyone else here this last week. All of this while looking as though in turmoil.”

“I’m not in turmoil,” Dean weakly counters, already feeling how all of those negative emotions of the last couple of days come welling up again.

“Then why won’t you look at me?” Castiel’s voice isn’t angry nor resigned; it’s nothing but soft, soothing. It’s exactly what Dean has longed for all week, but now that he has it, he feels ashamed to get it. Because it’s as if he’s cheated himself into hearing it, by making Castiel needlessly worry about him and stay here, in this dim and empty office, instead of returning home and enjoying his weekend, like he well deserves to.

Dean clenches his hands into fists. Castiel’s gaze flits briefly towards them, then back at Dean’s face.

“Am I making you feel uncomfortable?” Castiel asks into Dean’s silence, barely even disturbing it by how quietly he talks.

“No.”

“Yet, you don’t look comfortable.” Castiel pauses, considers. “Is this about our scene? Do you regret what we experienced together last weekend?”

“No,” Dean huffs out heavily, because this is so far from the truth as it can get. He loved every minute of what they did, no matter how cautiously reluctant and wary he might have been about it at first.

“Then what is it?” Castiel takes that last step closer, not quite into Dean’s space but almost inside it, and stops. He puts one hand on the edge of the desk and then does something completely unexpected: he lowers himself. With the weak groan of a man approaching middle age, he goes down on his knees, his face coming into Dean’s field of vision without Dean wanting to, and just like that, Dean has no chance but to make eye contact with him.

Castiel still looks a bit tired, delicate shadows under his eyes and his hair ruffled, but all of him lights up a tiny bit with a smile when Dean allows him this little victory and properly catches his gaze for the first time that day. Embarrassingly enough, Castiel looks almost thankful and as though one second away from praising Dean for this.

What Castiel does instead is steadily keep his gaze and ask again, his voice a constant warm wave, “What is it, Dean? What’s the matter?”

And for a moment there, Dean wonders himself. Because nothing of what he went through this week was anything new; Castiel not being around, Castiel not touching him for a couple of days, Castiel spending his lunch with other people, Dean being on his own. Rather, more than just being nothing new, Dean should be used to it. For Castiel to spend an exaggerated amount of attention to him or for him to have a lot of time for him on a daily basis would rather be the exception than the rule anyway, and not a thing they really ever had going for them.

And yet, all week, Dean hasn’t been able to shake off a certain feeling of expectation clinging to him, a hope for change. Not even for something big or extraordinary, just something– _something._ He doesn’t even know what; just that little something. An indulgence to his newfound addiction; a little less loneliness.

“I don’t know,” Dean answers truthfully and quietly. He feels so vulnerable suddenly, childishly helpless in face of his own confusing feelings.

Castiel just watches him, taking in his probably miserable-looking face and his stiff posture and the clothing Dean knows to be wrinkly. He must look the very picture of Bad Week.

“Mmmh.” Castiel shuffles slowly where he keeps kneeling and doesn’t break his focus on Dean.

“‘m sorry,” Dean says, feeling pathetic about himself. He’s well past being a child and will be thirty in a couple of years – he should be able to place his own emotions by now.

“There is nothing for you to be sorry for, Dean. If anything, _I_ should apologize for not picking up on your distress earlier.”

“That’s not your fault,” Dean protests.

“Truthfully, it might be,” Castiel says with a rueful, kind smile. “Unless anything else has happened this week that could be the cause of this and that I simply don’t know about, then I think there’s reason to believe that you might be dropping.”

All of Dean’s thoughts come to a screeching halt at that. What? “No, that’s–” He frowns. “I know what dropping feels like, and this isn’t it. It would be not getting out of bed, being disgusted with myself and hurting all over for no reason and y’know. Just wondering why anyone would want so much at look at me, let alone touch me. Feeling all kinds of bad and crying and whatever. Not just _this._ ” He gestures vaguely towards himself.

And while he has spoken, Castiel’s face has turned into a grimace, and it’s obvious that he tries to hide it and get a proper grip on it again, but his eyes and mouth are tight with something that’s– Dean’s not exactly sure what it _actually_ is, but it does look an awful lot like pain. Weird.

“I’m so sorry that you ever had to go through this, Dean. I’m sorry that I didn’t properly take this into consideration.”

“You didn’t know,” Dean deflects.

“I think I knew enough that I should have gone out of my way to assure that you are absolutely fine.”

This is stupid, Dean thinks. Their scene wasn’t even a real scene, not like he’s been used to. There was barely any pain and all around just a lot of kisses and embraces and him getting rimmed. Of course, Castiel couldn’t have known that Dean would feel bad about himself after being goddamn showered with affection instead of being beaten or anything, like any normal person wouldn’t have to expect. Castiel at least kept in contact and tried to find some time for him, despite his busy schedule, and just somehow… somehow, it still wasn’t enough. Not enough attention and paperming, for some as _needy_ as Dean.

How shameful.

“Dean?”

“Mmh?”

“Can you tell me what you mean by ‘this’? You said you know what a sub drop feels like, but not like ‘this’. How _is_ it that you feel?”

Well, that’s a good question if Dean ever heard one. He would have some answers for that – jealous, stressed out, tired – but somehow, none of these words sit quite right with him, would fit all that much. Because he’s all of these things, but also more. What, he can’t say, not really. Not right now.

So he just shrugs.

To which Castiel, surprisingly enough, nods. Maybe this was something he has expected or something he has had made previous experiences with. “I see. Then let’s return to this later. Maybe, for now, could you tell me if there is something I can do for you? Something you could want that will help you feel better? Just anything you would want me to do?”

And this one is easy, because there’s a thing that Dean has longed for all week. Even more than to wear his necktie again or to receive another emoticon blowing him a kiss or to be allowed to go home and be by himself. None of these things have come close to his embarrassing daydreams about Castiel swooping in and swooping him up into his arms, just holding and soothing him for a while.

”Can you, uhm, touch me a little?” Dean asks, squirming. Maybe he could have worded that a bit better.

Yet, Castiel just smiles ever so slightly and doesn’t say anything about Dean’s wording or his request in general. Instead, he slowly moves closer, puts one hand on Dean’s knee and lets it rest there, while with the other hand, he reaches higher. He gently thumbs along the line of Dean’s throat, encircled by a stale gray necktie, and then puts his flat and open palm onto the side of his neck, covering a thrilling part of it with ease. It stays there only for long enough for the warmth of the other to seep through, for their skin to have reached the same temperature, and then slowly strokes upwards, coming to cup Dean’s cheek.

Immediately as much as involuntarily, the tension leaves Dean’s body with each stroke, each moment of caress, and when one side of his face is encased by this big and warm hand, his eyes fall closed, and his head and all of his body, of _him,_ lean into the touch.

Dean sighs deeply as he does. It feels like something is clicking into place, as if just like that, everything is alright again. Yet, still not perfect. There’s still something missing, something longing inside of him. Now, though does he have more of an idea of what it might be he is longing for, and how he can get it.

“Cas,” Dean whispers as one of his hands comes up to clutch at the arm that is lifted to reach his face, and as his fingers close around Castiel’s wrist, it’s not to push him away but to pull him further in with gentle tugging. “Please.”

And, magically enough, it doesn’t take more than that little plea and those tugs for Dean to get what he craves. Because within a moment, Castiel has raised himself up on his knees enough, halfway into standing, for him to be able to put his arms around Dean, around his neck and his waist, and to pull him up against his body.

Castiel crowds close enough that Dean can stay seated comfortably, his office chair merely squeaking softly under the movements and their combined weight. Dean can’t bring himself to care about it, though, or even try to move to make this position easier on Castiel and his knees on the hard ground, because he can’t think beyond all that warmth and tenderness finally returning to him, enveloping him again.

(Not abandoning him, not giving him up for anything or anyone better. But being there for Dean once more, just because he asked to, just because he wanted to.)

Castiel sighs against the shell of Dean’s ear, where his lips brush against it with a frequency and gentleness that couldn’t be anything but deliberate.

“Yes,” Castiel says, with the tips of his fingers playing against every part of Dean they can reach; his dressed back, his combed and gelled hair, his naked neck. “It seems I was right to fear that I was the cause of your distress.”

“Hum?” Dean asks dumbly, burrowing his nose at that warm and nice-smelling place where Castiel’s collar ends and his skin begins. He can barely even remember any _distress,_ not now that all of it is already bleeding from him fast, leaving only those warm feelings that he floated on top of at the beginning of the week.

“How do you feel now, Dean?” Castiel asks, in lieu of an answer.

“Better,” Dean replies without having to even think about it. Because even though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it before, the very least he knew was that he wasn’t feeling _good._ And he does now, or is well on his way to. With every second that Castiel is holding him.

“That’s good.” Castiel rewards him with a kiss to his forehead, and even though this simple gesture seems to be lacking in any sexual intention, it makes Dean feel all warm inside. “And how did you feel before? Can you maybe try to put it into words for me now?”

Dean wants to say ‘I don’t know’ and leave it at that, but Castiel’s little ‘for me’ motivates him to really think about it, to explain himself. Because he knows that if he does things for Castiel, things like this, in which he is trying to be a good boy for him, not only will he get rewarded with all kinds of nice stuff, like even more hugs and kisses and smiles, he will also simply make Castiel happy. Maybe even proud. So, he gives it his best.

“I’m not really all that sure, but just unhappy. Uhm.” He thinks of how Castiel was gone for his business trip and how his tie was gone as well. And how Dean only got a kiss emoticon when Castiel was drunk. And how Castiel spent so much time with Mr. Roche, but not with Dean. How Dean had to deal with Mr. Adler and all this work all by himself. “Sad,” he says, before he elaborates in a small, honest voice, “lonely.”

He can hear Castiel take in a long, almost shuddering breath, around the wet clicking of his throat, and then letting it all out again.

It sounds so strangely human.

“I’m so sorry, Dean.” And before Dean can object and say anything about how none of this was his fault, Castiel continues. “I neglected you. I failed to properly look after you. Maybe not deliberately, but I did.”

“You messaged me often enough. Also, I, of all people, would know how much you’ve had to do this week and with your business trips. I arrange your appointments and schedule your meetings, after all.”

“Yet, that’s no excuse. If I can find the time to scene with you, I should also be able to find the time to take care of you afterwards. It is just as essential as any set-up or safeword – and it was my responsibility to see to you properly.”

“You did. See to me.”

“Evidently not enough,” Castiel says, and he sounds irritated. Not at Dean though, but most likely at himself.

“It’s not your fault I’m like this,” Dean tries to reassure him.

“Like what, Dean? Please, do tell me. Because from my point of view, you have felt lonely and sad because I have failed to ascertain that all of your needs are met, and I didn’t even become aware of it until I almost went home for the weekend and left you alone for even longer with it. This is not blame that falls on you, but on me.”

And that’s just it, isn’t it? That Dean has all of these _needs_ in the first place, that he is _needy._ Castiel couldn’t even have anticipated just how much so. And neither could Dean, honestly. After all, this is the first time he’s in this type of situation at all – one in which he gets to express his needs and possibly even make any demands. Before, in any other arrangement of this kind, all he knew and all there was was the absence of care, a disregard of whatever Dean’s _needs_ might have consisted of. It was much less than Castiel has given him; it was nothing.

“I want too much,” Dean murmurs, confesses in the smallest of voices. He’s needy and greedy and selfish – and Castiel has a right to know.

“You don’t want enough,” Castiel counters, and he sounds so sure about it, “or you do, but you don’t allow yourself to.”

“Yes, I do. I wanted and allowed myself not to work at my Dad’s garage, but to study management. I wanted and allowed myself to live in a big city instead of in Kansas, so I moved here. Just this morning, I wanted and allowed myself a chocolate bar with extra peanut butter in it.” He takes a deep breath. “I also wanted and allowed myself to be your sub. All of this is already more than enough. Some of it even more than that.”

“You deserve all of this, and even more.”

“I wonder.”

“I don’t.” Castiel huffs, but not in amusement, and briefly closes his eyes.“But is there anything else? Anything that I could give you, that you might consider to be ‘more than enough’, yet that you might wish for? I mean it when I say that I want to make amendments for this week and that the blame for it is mine to shoulder. I need to see where it was that I have gone wrong, and how it is that I could do better in the future.”

“There’s nothing, really.”

“Dean.”

But Dean remains stubborn, and silent. None of the things he would want for are feasible, anyway; there’s no use wishing for goodmorning kisses and ‘see you tomorrow’ hugs, not if they want to keep up the resemblance of a professional environment.

“Dean, I mean it when I say it is essential that we communicate,” Castiel says. “As for hat to do, I want to check in more often next time, and in general. I will be more attentive to you and your state of mind, regardless of how stressful the week or the day might be. This is a matter of priorities, and that you feel well at work and personally ranks higher than your work itself.”

Dean would beg to differ; it’s his work, after all, that brings him the most praise from Castiel. And that has helped them enter their arrangement in the first place. It’s also, completely independent of his boss, something he takes great pride in.

Any other week, that is. When he hasn’t had Adler give him a hard time for days already.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Whether or not I need to is irrelevant; I want to do it.”

“Huh.”

"What would you want me do instead? I want to keep in better contact with you, as something that will be integrative to our arrangement. There must be something like this for you as well, something you must want to be incorporated, in order to prevent what happened this week and to get the best out of this for both of us. And please, Dean, don'tt say nothing. There must be something.” Castiel sounds more than serious about this, and maybe one step away from taking Dean by the shoulders and shaking him until he sees reason.

So, even though Dean wants to reason that he shouldn’t bother with anything, wants to say, ‘Because I don’t want you to anything’, just to keep himself from sounding slightly less pathetic but all the more childish than an honest, ‘I’m not worth the trouble’, he doesn’t. He still averts his eyes, though, guided by a deep-seated shame that even open praise and a good rimming have not yet managed to disperse, and speaks up for himself in a small but steady voice.

“I want you to touch me more. I know that it’s kinda tricky, what with being in the office and all, but, “ he swallows and pushes on, “if you’re asking me what I want, then this is it, this is what I want. I like it when you touch me, and I would want more of it.”

The fingers all over his cheeks and neck are immediate, as is the smile that lightens up all of Castiel’s face.

“Then, that is what you’ll receive. You’re such a good boy for telling me this, Dean. I know it wasn’t easy for you, but you still did. So perfect, telling me about your needs, allowing me to take care of you in the way you want me to.”

Dean all but purrs at the tips of those fingers dancing all along his skin, at the pride that swells in his chest and at how close and happy Castiel is, all because of him.

How is it that Dean seems to forget the feeling of this time and time again? That that overwhelming happiness appears to be a mere dream once it’s ebbed away, and when it returns, it’s all the more powerful for it?

Castiel caresses that sensitive part beneath which Dean’s artery lies with the back of his fingers and pulls away just enough for them to regain eye contact, for him take in whatever must be in Dean’s face and for Dean to see him curl up his lips in what must be an attempt to school his face into a neutral expression, but looks more like a curious pout. “I noticed you stopped wearing the necktie I gave you.”

Dean would wish for him to call it something different. Logically, he knows that Castiel explained that the tie wasn’t meant as a collar – or at least, not only – and that he intended it to be seen as more of a reward for Dean than as a claim, but still. Dean craves for him to call it ‘My necktie’, for Castiel to acknowledge how Dean wears it not just for himself, but also for him.

“Not because I wanted to. And not because I wanted to renounce you or anything. But I can’t wear it every day; you know how office politics are. How closely some people look at how you dress yourself and judge you and your skills by it.” It’s a truth he is not happy about, but it’s also not something he can deny. Especially because there’s more than his own reputation riding on how he looks and presents himself: as Castiel’s personal assistant, his reputation would also impact Castiel’s. He needs to look sharp and stay on top of his game, and must make people believe he is. Nobody who has some sloppy secretary will ever make it to CEO. “If it was up to me, I,” he huffs out a laugh at himself, “I would’ve worn it every day.”

Castiel graces him with a soft little smile for that and with his fingers keeping up their little dance against Dean’s neck. It has Dean shivering in a delicate sort of pleasure. “Maybe I should have given you more neckties. A whole array of them, so that you have enough to wear a different one each day.”

Dean can’t help but laugh a bit at that. “Maybe. But I just really like the one you gave me. And– uhm–”

“And?” Castiel coaxes gently, playfully.

Deciding to be honest, Dean drops his gaze towards the vicinity of Castiel’s jaw and proceeds, “I like that it’s only one. A special one. You know, just for me and by you and–” He knows his face must already be pink from just that little bit of talking, “and I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Castiel’s smile almost grows into a grin then, gummy and seemingly innocent. “You still like to see it as a collar.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, and he’s pretty sure that Castiel must be able to feel the heat of his blush and how his pulse is picking up against his fingertips. “Do you think that’s– is that bad?”

“I certainly want to believe it isn’t, not in the slightest,” Castiel says as he pulls himself closer towards Dean again, “because I like to see it as that as well. As much as as a sign of your diligence.”

“‘Diligence’,” Dean snorts out. He knows he’s worked hard to get to the place where he is right now, but lately, he feels like his work has been lacking, that he’s doing the bare minimum. Ask Adler.

“Yes, of course,” Castiel easily disagrees. “Do you think I hired and kept you on the grounds of being beyond beautiful? I made you my personal assistant based on your skills and attitude alone, not because having a gorgeous assistant is considered an asset by many. You already are an asset to me by your hard and precise work alone.”

“Yeah, right.” It’s so difficult to just accept this, to let Castiel talk and believe it, to not just automatically shut out when it gets to be too much. Because Dean can take compliments like ‘hot’, ‘sexy’, ‘fuckable’ or whatever, even the occasional ‘beautiful’ if it’s in the throes of passion, but not like this, for no reason at all, from a man who’s embracing and praising him after a week that started off so nice and then turned so bad and who’s already making him forget about all of that again. “And what about other people?”

“Other people?” Castiel sounds honest in his confusion – hell, even Dean is. Because why would be bring this up now, when he’s being held and made to feel good again, only to possibly turn the mood sour. And yet, Dean can’t help himself. Because this week was tiring and he was lonely. Possibly even hurt.

“People like, I don’t know, Balthazar Roche, for example. What things do you do with his because of his looks or because of his diligence?”

“What? Dean, I don’t–” Castiel tries to catch Dean’s gaze again, but Dean refuses to, deliberately turns his head and eyes away, and Castiel allows him to, for the time being. “Dean, I currently don’t sleep with other people, and I don’t intend to. I know we haven’t yet discussed about whether we are exclusive or not, but I personally enjoy to focus all of my energy and attention on my current play partner, not anyone else. Least of all business partners of Sandover. And Balthazar – Mr. Roche –, he’s also an old friend from college. This isn’t the first time we have done business together, but neither of us has ever tried to or wished to move beyond any of this. I am not interested in him and he is not interested in me, regardless of how much he likes to flirt with anyone and,” he furrows his brow, “annoy me with things that are none of his business.”

“Huh?” The image of Castiel and Mr. Roche leaving Castiel’s office is flashing right before Dean’s eyes; Roche’s self-satisfied grin, Castiel’s flushed cheeks. Could there possibly have been more to this than meets the eye?

“What I mean to express is, asking you to become my submissive was already highly unprofessional and an absolute exception to my usual conduct; I’m not in the habit of mixing work and pleasure.”

“So you made an exception for _me_?” Dean inquires, because this makes no sense at all. Unless Castiel had been looking for some secretary he could take over his desk on a regular basis, there would’ve been very few reasons besides ‘Dean would be a quick and easy lunchtime or after-hours fuck’ to break Castiel’s professional conduct and approach Dean on grounds of purchasing a play arrangement.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Even though Dean might still not be looking at Castiel, he can feel Castiel looking at him. His warm breath hitting the side of Dean’s face, both hands still somewhere in contact with Dean’s body at all times.

“Because you are intriguing,” Castiel says so slowly as if he needs to weigh the words himself, figure them out while he speaks them, “you are wonderful. After so many months, during the night we closed that big deal, I realized that even if I wanted to keep on denying myself, I needed to take you on as my submissive. I might have wanted to do so right from the beginning, shortly after you had started working as my assistant, but I vowed to never do so, to never let it get so far. Until I realized that I couldn’t; that I needed to ask you at the very least. That I had to try.”

Castiel’s thumb and index finger play around Dean’s chin, coaxing at first and then, when Dean doesn’t really react, guiding it up, along with his gaze. It’s for Dean to find a face that seems unwilling – or unable – to keep its emotions at bay; joy along with something darker, a faint note of something Dean just recently got a taste of his own of.

“I had to try to make you mine. I spent a lot of time imagining of all the ways that I wanted to touch you and make you feel good, and when you were so diligent and helpful at saving that deal and then allowed me to actually touch you,” Castiel looks as if, any other time, he would sigh or smile now, but all that happens is that that little wild note that clings to him from time to time grows even more pronounced, takes hold of his eyes and his slightly parted mouth, “that was when I had to have you.”

The spike of arousal that follows is acute and overwhelming. Dean’s been asked to be a play partner many times before, but never for longer than a couple of times, never in this way. Castiel already has him; there’s no need for him to say all of these things retrospectively, to make Dean feel good and desirable about himself. Yet, he does. And that look on his face, like he wants to devour Dean right on the spot, makes Dean wonder if there’s any pretense to this at all, if Castiel’s isn’t actually unbridledly honest with him.

On the tailend of these thoughts, Dean swallows. And decides to take a plunge.

“You say you are not interested in any other play partners at the moment – and so am I.” He takes a deep breath. “So, if both of us want to be exclusive, why don’t you prove it? That I am your– _your_ good boy right now. If you want to make me _yours,_ not anyone else’s, then you should go and show it. Or more like, make me show it.” He slowly tilts his head to the side, baring his throat and the gray necktie, and he’s sure Castiel must be able to see the rushed pulse of his artery, beating against his skin. “With something more permanent than a tie, maybe. Something skin-deep.”

“Dean,” Castiel breathes out, equally as possessive as amazed.

When Dean darts out his tongue to lick over his lips, he finds them dry. “Or do you not want to?”

The arms around Dean tighten, drag him closer towards Castiel, so close that their upper bodies are connected without any trace of space between them, so close that Castiel’s face is easily nestled against Dean’s throat, so close that Dean doesn’t have any damn chance but to allow him that, to keep his neck bared and his body in his embrace, in this possessive, desperate hold.

In contrast to that, Castiel’s lips do nothing but ghost all over that hot, pulsing skin Dean has offered to him, only him, his teeth only coming out to play for fractions of a moment, scraping against neck and throat, but not nibbling, not biting, not marking. Not yet.

“Please,” Dean whimpers, because he knows by now that this is how he can get what he wants; that if he just asks, Castiel will give him whatever he could wish for.

Dean can feel his dick plump and happy inside his pants.

“Yes,” Castiel answers in a growl, kissing a line up Dean’s throat, not marking him still. “But not here. There’s too much open space and anyone could come by.”

Which is true enough; after all, Dean doesn’t own an office, just an elaborate desk set-up right in front of Castiel’s office. There’s no doors, only a short corridor, separating him from the rest of the floor and building. Anyone could come by indeed; it might be late on a Friday evening, but not so late for every floor to be empty, for nobody not to have any matters they could wish to discuss with Dean or even Castiel. It wouldn’t be the first time someone came by at this hour – though it would be the first time for anyone to find Dean in a position like this.

The idea of which is strangely appealing, despite it all. Appealing enough for Dean to make a sound that he hopes doesn’t come out as too much of a whine, and for him to pant in Castiel’s arms. “I don’t care. I want to. You can have me like this.”

Castiel’s answering sound is choked, yet does come across as pleased, as considering even. But he shakes his head.

“No, Dean. We haven’t yet discussed any public settings and I wouldn’t wish for either of us to do something in the heat of the moment that we could soon come to regret, that we could suffer actual consequences from. Besides,” he confides in a low voice and with the ridge of his teeth dragging over Dean’s skin, “I don’t wish for anyone to see you like this. I want you to be as open and beautiful like this for only me, in a space that is safe and comfortable and _ours._ ”

“But I don’t wanna wait until we’re at your place or mine,” Dean complains.

“Dean–”

“No, Cas, please, I–” The need to have this is overwhelming; but especially the need to have this _now_ and _here._ “Can’t we go into your office? We both know you can lock it and close the blinds, and no one will be able to see. It’ll be _ours,_ then. Nobody else there, just us. No one will know.”

“I want to take you home,” Castiel protests, but Dean can already hear his resolve weakening.

“You can take me home right after,” Dean promises. And with that, there’s a little fantasy already springing up in his mind, making him grow even harder and more mindless. “And there, you can punish me there for this. Put me over your lap like we talked about and spank me for being so– so greedy. A bad boy.”

Castiel shakes his head, weakly and mindful of not hitting their heads against each other. “You’re not a bad boy, not for this.”

“But aren’t I greedy and deserve punishment?” Dean asks with a warm breath against Castiel’s cheek, his lips wandering higher. He presses a little kiss to the corner of Castiel’s mouth, just that one. “Don’t you want to give to me what I deserve?”

“I would never punish you for this, never for expressing what you want,” Castiel murmurs, and then Dean can almost hear a little click when his last words register, when Castiel goes rigid for a moment and just lets out a soft and breathless, “But _yes,_ I will give you what you deserve”.

And in the next moment, his one arm becomes almost painfull tight around Dean’s waist, whereas the other is suddenly reaching under Dean, sneaking in beneath his butt, and then pulling him in, heaving him up, right along with Castiel, who’s labouredly getting up, taking Dean with him.

Dean wants to squeak right along with his office chair that is now carelessly pushed away and hitting against the edge of his desk, disregarded. What’s of much bigger importance is Castiel jerking Dean up, so that his bowlegs are properly around Castiel’s waist and his arms around his neck and his gaping mouth close to Castiel’s.

Despite it all, Dean feels rather safe. Supported, you might say. And _really_ turned on by this display of strength. Especially so when Castiel, easy as pie, walks around the desk, Dean in his arms and his briefcase still discarded by the desk. And also when he makes his way towards the door of his own office, shoulders his way in – still unlocked because it’s Dean’s job to lock it before going home – and kicks the door closed behind them. All while never, not once, losing his balance or his grip on Dean.

He proceeds towards his big and ridiculously expensive leather couch, steps still neither slowed nor clumsy, the expression on his face pensive, a sign of him being concentrated, and it only loses some of that steady edge when Dean and him finally reach the sofa, onto which – instead of playfully tossing him – Castiel carefully lets Dean down.

Dean is loathe to let go when his butt meets the leather, but Castiel gently unwinds his arms and legs from around him, puts a rushed kiss to his forehead and orders, “Wait for me here, Dean. It’ll be just a moment.”

And Dean doesn’t say any of the clichéd lines that immediately come to mind at that, keeps quiet about how he is willing to wait for much than just a moment, and obeys. He just sinks back onto the sofa, the leather of it soothingly cool against his heated skin, and does nothing but watch as Castiel steps back to the door and locks it, then makes his way towards the blinds of both his windows and the glass wall connecting Dean’s outer office with his, and lets them down.

Along with them falls darkness into and over the room, only disturbed by small cracks where the blinds aren’t fully meant to cover the windows and where the light from the corridor and the glow of the city breaks in.

A sudden cold sensation takes hold of Dean, much colder than the leather of the sofa or the leather of any belt he has ever been struck by, the fear of being left alone again, discarded for a second time in a mere week.

But it’s only a matter of seconds until Castiel returns to him, and with him his warmth and a little lamp above the couch that Castiel lights with familiar fingers, bathing their little part of the office at least in a golden glow.

Castiel’s smile, though, seems to alight all of the room.

“Is this alright?” Castiel asks quietly as he guides Dean further onto the sofa, so that his back is pressed against the back of it and his thighs are resting on the leather, and as he settles himself up above Dean, straddling him, one knee pressing into the side of Dean’s thigh, the other stretched and allowing him to remain somewhat steady on the ground.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and for some reason it seems only right for him to keep his voice down as well, for him not to disturb the intimacy of the room. “More than.”

“Good,” Castiel hums and settles even lower, from hovering to sitting half on top of Dean, still not with all of his weight, but more than enough. Enough to feel him, to take confidence from his presence.

Dean wants to rub up against him, but not even to chase any sexual gratification, just because he wants to be closer, as close as possible. Luckily, Castiel seems to feel much the same, because instead of remaining motionless in his position enough to tease, his mouth is quick to search for Dean’s, a rushed out, breathless “Dean” the only heads-up before their lips touch, are sealed in a kiss.

Dean can feel himself tense as much as relax, and his hands must be grabbing for the front of Castiel’s or anything because they are soon digging into the fabric of it, keeping him into their kiss that is nothing more than a peck that diffuses unhurriedly, with soft smacks that might be more fit to a child’s first kiss.

Neither of them seems to be bothered by this, though, so their slow kind of kissing is all they keep to for the first few minutes, just exploring each other’s lips with their own and finding new and _good_ ways to fit them together.

Soon, both of them sigh into their kissing, long and pleased. They only finally draw back again when the first tip of a tongue comes out to swipe against the seam of where they are connected, wet and a touch too much for the moment, making their eyes blink open dazedly and search for one another.

Only then does Dean notice that they must have moved during their kissing. So slowly, probably, that they weren’t even aware of it. But they must have, because Dean can’t remember them being in this position, with his body lying along the length of the sofa, legs stretched out so far that his shoes almost reach the edge of the seating surface. And with Castiel above him still, but his arms to either side of Dean’s face now, boxing him in, whereas their lower bodies are somewhere between connected and hovering, just close enough for both of them to be able to feel just how good what they are doing feels to the other. And just like this, all of this seems familiar already.

“I _really_ would prefer we would do this in a setting that is not as public,” Castiel repeats from before, from a time that already seems lifetimes, endless kisses ago.

“So you said,” Dean replies, feeling cheeky and exhilarated because Castiel is finally close and above him again, is taking the time to play with Dean, to give in to his demands and needs, no matter how tired and done with his week he must be.

“At the same time, I am not certain I could stop touching you, even if I wished to,” Castiel says while sucking a mark into the skin of Dean’s throat, and then another. And another. He finally seems to have given in to their purpose of being there; intent on replacing the necktie.

“Well,” Dean says, all smiles and confidence now because the sucking feels nice and because Castiel just said it, that he wants to keep touching Dean, wants to be with him here and now,  despite it all. It’s an immense rush of all those good feelings that Dean can already feel returning home from the weekend, and it’s overwhelming, to want and to be wanted back “good thing then that there’s no one and nothing here who would wish for that.”

“Reason does,” Castiel lightly replies as he returns Dean’s smile puts a little kiss right onto the middle of Dean’s chin, then nudges against it with his nose, guiding it upwards so that all of Dean’s jaw and throat are exposed to Castiel’s gaze and, most importantly, his mouth.

“Reason,” Dean considers with a snort that ends up hitched when Castiel bits into his skin, then soothes the bite mark with his tongue. “All that reason seems interested in is for you to keep from screwing your assistant and to keep your job. Or keep up your reputation, at least. I sincerely doubt that this could do any harm to your position.”

“I am not concerned about myself, but about you. And not just from a professional point of view, but also because it is hard for me to gauge just how stable you are right now and how good of an idea this is. Especially given this, it would be much more prudent to do this at a safe and private place where both of us will be able to rest and take care of one another.”

“I thought you would take me home like I suggested for you to do.” The way Castiel keeps working and worrying his skin certainly seem to imply nothing different.

The tip of Castiel’s tongue darts out, but only so briefly that Dean has to wonder whether it was intentional or just a byproduct of Castiel wetting his lips. “And I will. I will take you home and tend to you and afterwards assure that you will get all of what you need. This time, at last. I have learnt from this and I will not let you down a second time. I promise you, Dean.”

“You don’t need to promise me anything, Cas. Because there is nothing you did wrong. Me feeling down is not on you.”

Castiel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath against his skin, the tickle of which feels like he’s trying to inhale the scent of his skin. His lips move against it almost impercebtibly, no proper kisses and no bites, just little toothless nibbles that come across as more assuring than anything.

“In that case, I want _you_ to promise _me_ something, Dean,” Castiel murmurs, and Dean wonders if he is ignoring what he just said or if maybe he didn’t even really listen. “If anything like this happens ever again. If you ever feel low or in any way negatively affected after a scene, I need you to tell me. No, even more than that. Just in general, if you don’t feel well, know you don’t need to hold it in. Know that I want to listen if you want to tell me. I wish for you to do tell me if you feel bad. Because I want you to know that you are not alone. That there’s no need for you to feel _lonely.”_

Dean pauses, letting Castiel’s words drip into him in silence. He wonders if maybe he shouldn’t have admitted to having been lonely; as this, most of all, seems to be what crushes Castiel. As if to forget about his own words, Castiel kisses two more marks into Dean’s skin, one next to the other, in a ring that just keeps growing.

“That really got to you, didn’t it?” Dean asks, but not mockingly or in any way to sneer at the somber look in Castiel’s eyes – he asks softly, curiously. Because this is weird, is what it is. For Castiel to be hurting so much about Dean, hurting. For him to care so much.

“Yes, it did. I mean it when I say that I want you to make you feel good. During or after a scene, it doesn’t matter. I cherish you as a person as much as– _no,_ so much more than you as a submissive. Your well-being should always come first. Not the scene or me or anything else.”

“Didn’t you say we are supposed to take care of each other? So shouldn’t your well-being be seen to as well?”

“I suppose so. But you already do, even if you may not be aware of it.” He sucks on Dean’s skin, takes it between his lips and teeth and does with it what Dean asked of him to do. And Dean may not be able to see, but he can _feel_ the marks blossoming all over his throat, imagines how many marks there will be to come, scattered all over that dreadfully empty collar around his neck. “You take such good care of me, Dean,” he whispers.

Dean doesn’t really know what to say to that. Because he’s well-aware that any protests would fall on deaf ears, that Castiel wouldn’t want to listen to Dean’s doubts about this admission and especially about himself. All Dean does is take and take, but not take care of anyone else. Least of all of Castiel. Because that’s his forte, it’s what Castiel does relentlessly. And just accepts with a smile and some praise and the weirdest of notions, according to which Castiel is the one to have been dealt a lucky hand.

“I don’t know about that,” is all Dean says in ways of protest, but it’s too weak, too distracted by the lips and teeth working over his neck, that it is barely even reprimanded beyond a sudden nib.

“But I do.”

And Dean wouldn’t know which reasons Castiel would even have to lie about this to him, because hey, if Castiel did indeed feel neglected, he probably would come out and say it instead of taking things as they are and even soothing Dean’s doubts about it. There’s nothing in it for Castiel if he did lie – and it’s one of the reasons that convinces Dean to believe him. Not the only one, though; pretty much all of the other reasons are solely based on knowledge and experience about Castiel as a person. Of both of which he has gained his fair share of while being a personal assistant as well as a tentative friend for Castiel.

“I promise,” Dean brings out around a moan bubbling up in his throat as Castiel lowers himself just enough for their crotches to finally properly meet each other, for them to rub together not just so, but enough to really feel it. To be once more aware of the effect he has on Castiel, and of what Castiel might be packing. Because that’s a nice bulge coming up to meet his own. One – as he at once acutely becomes aware of – he has yet to see. That is, not in post-scene haze and not when it’s already soft and just dangling in the thick bush that he, at the very least, knows Castiel to be sporting.

“Such a good boy for me,” Castiel praises around his bared and skin-worrying teeth. He only lets go once Dean can really feel the sting of it, which is probably also when there’s a mark blooming there already. Almost apologetically, Castiel kisses the little patch of skin he has just worked over, then moves on to the next.

Dean can’t really see, but it feels like Castiel does good on his word, because it sure seems like Castiel is licking and biting and sucking a thick band around Dean’s neck and throat. The marks must be at approximately the same height and just low enough to dip under the collar of Dean’s dress shirts at any given day, but still high enough to be clearly visible should he move in the wrong way or should one wandering finger teasingly pull down the fabric, expose him.

Dean can’t keep in his groan as he imagines those marks remaining on his skin until after the next Monday, when he will have to work again, and other people noticing them. Maybe some of them believing something extraordinarily bad must have happened to him; maybe some of them knowing something extraordinarily good must have happened to him. Either way, they might ask and point, make Dean blush even, which would be fine enough by him as long as they don’t touch them. Because they are his to keep and his to enjoy, just as he is for Castiel.

(He wonders if Castiel might stay late on Monday, too, just to check if his marks are still where they are supposed to be. And if they are already fading, will he take his time to renew them? Will he pull Dean into his office again and push him onto the couch and make him beg for more?)

“Ah,” Dean hiccups, and only then does he notice that there’s no lips on his neck anymore, just fingers tracing the skin, and that Castiel is looking down at him with a glint in his eyes. Somehow, Dean knows he must paint a pretty picture: flushed and aroused by his fantasies about the man above him, whose bulge is rubbing against his at a steady yet slow pace now, his eyes fixed attentively on his face.

“Now, what have you been thinking about?”

All Dean can do is pant and softly circle his hips to catch the outline of Castiel’s cock against his own, taking pleasure in its thickness and how it’s straining in a way that almost seems begging to be freed.

Castiel smiles. And as soft as it seems, it elicits a shiver to run down Dean’s spine – albeit not one of fear or coldness.

“I could feel you enjoying your fantasy, Dean.” He presses down with his hips, making his point by elicit a noticeable twitch out of Dean’s erection. “And it does make me wonder what it might have been about. Maybe about something that I am not doing that you would want me to do? Something that I would be happy to give to you if you only ask?”

“’t was about you,” Dean confesses as his right hands sneaks up from where it was so uselessly holding onto Castiel or vaguely stroking him, and runs it over the side of his neck. He feels like cupping Castiel’s face and pulling him down into a kiss – one of the same sort they started out with – but he isn’t quite sure if that would go too far, be one step too much, because it would be one step back to that child-like tenderness from before.

For some reason, he has a hard time gauging just how far he is allowed to go with Castiel, in terms of intimacy, unless Castiel is the one to initiate their contact. Because he might be allowed to suck Castiel off if he asked to, but would he also be allowed to hold his hand while he did?

Unsure, Dean pulls his hand back, so that it hovers awkwardly somewhere around Castiel’s face and throat, not touching anything. Castiel just lets him, keeps his eyes patiently and unerringly on Dean, until he decides to pull away. In a swift movement, Castiel grips Dean’s hand as it is on its way down, and raises it towards his own face again. There, he puts it on his cheek, Dean’s open palm cupping his face, and lays his own hand over it, covering it completely.

Dean feels like crying and like coming at the same time; like doing anything that will bring this man yet even closer to himself. So, he sticks to the truth that he is always rewarded for and draws little circles with his hips, enticing Castiel to do the same with an unreadable and still coloured face.

“I thought about you,” Dean says, “and about the hickeys you are giving me. I was wondering for how long they’ll stay – for how long you’ll bother to renew them. And that if you do, will you do it in the same way as now? Whisk me away into your office and mark me up here? Maybe even–” Shame and arousal are warring inside of him, making the words fall from his lips in a heated hush, “maybe even take me here while you do? Over your desk or on this couch, holding me down and f-fucking me hard, only letting me up once you’re through with me and I am all marked up as yours again?”

The moan this pulls out of Castiel is all the sweeter for how Dean had to get up the nerves to speak like that, honest yet erotic. It seems a difficult art, no matter how easy Castiel makes every filthy little promise and idea sound.

“The marks will stay for as long as you want them to, Dean. For however long you allow me to touch you like this, to hold and caress you. Any minute I have the rights to call you my submissive is an honour already, but to be given the privilege to let your skin show it too, to let anyone else see, is even more than that, almost unbearably so.”

Castiel’s hips jerk into Dean’s, igniting his spine and moving his free hand, letting it dig into Castiel’s shoulder, to ground himself, to get a proper grip, to let Dean thrust up against him in kind, hard cock against hard cock, cotton their only barrier.

“I loathe seeing you without the necktie I gave to you, Dean. If you allowed me to, if any tie would do to quench your need to be seen as collared, I would give you enough to last a year, a lifetime.”

And Dean feels the heat licking at his mind, assumes that the very same heat must be licking at Castiel, too, to have him say things like these, which seem to move beyond the now already, take steps towards something that Dean is sure isn’t what Castiel could mean. What he could imply _beyond_ the play; _beyond_ what they are building right now. It’s only Dean’s greed again that lets him read too much into this – that has him drink these words down as if they were truth, as if they weren’t part of an arrangement.

“If I could, I would wear it every day,” Dean says, and he sounds desperate, whiny, to his own ears.

And Castiel just shushes him and presses his lips against Dean’s, stealing a few reassuring little kisses amidst the deeply intentional grinding their crotches are now doing against each other. There’s a goal there that is needs to be chased already, that they finally are chasing, after a week of needless distance and cool skin.

“I know you would, Dean. You’re a good boy, I told you you are, and I wish I could give you this, everything you could want for.”

Dean moans and pulls Castiel back in again when he tries to withdraw to keep speaking. And then, Dean doesn’t know anything else to do but to sink his teeth into Castiel’s bottom lip, not as a claim of any sort, but as a suggestion. And it works, as immediately after, Castiel lets out a deep and growly sound and bites Dean’s lips in return, pulls the bottom one in as he sucks and only lets go to replace his teeth with his tongue, long and stiff, pushing its way in between Dean’s lips, thrusting in in a way that Dean can only hope to feel in other ways too – as Dean will offer up other parts of him to Castiel, as Castiel will make use of other parts of him as he pleases, as Dean will be pleasured.

“I want to touch you,” Dean lets out in a swoop of air.

“You’re free to touch me all you want.”

“No, I want– to touch your cock.” His embarrassment almost compels him to be silent again, to just take what Castiel gives him right now, what is good and nice, yet not enough. “I’ve never really seen it before and I wanna– I wanna touch it and maybe, ah, taste it. You know. I want to suck you off. Swallow you down and have you, uhm,” he licks his lips, unsure and strung tight with need, “come down my throat.”

“Dean, _oh.”_ Castiel gets a few mindless thrusts in, just him obviously riding the high without letting it wash him away already, just enjoying how far in he already is. And then, there’s Castiel’s tongue filling, _claiming_ his mouth again, kissing both of them breathless in their mutual desperation. He only pulls off once their panting becomes too much and keeps them from kissing, and he places his forehead against Dean’s, the meeting skin slick with sweat and rhythmically pulling close and away again with the inexorable movement of their hips.

“You may taste me all you want, Dean, as I will do the same to you. I have thought about this so often, and I want to, _I want to.”_ He swallows visibly, sighs and groans at his own words. “But not tonight; there’s no point in that anymore. For now, I want you to to do this.” Castiel’s hands, the one resting over Dean’s, gently curls around it and pulls it away, turns it around in his grip and grasps into the gaps between his fingers, filling them with his own, palm to palm. Only then does he pulls their interlocked hands down towards their stomachs and between them, where their crotches meet.

With his unoccupied hand, Castiel fumbles at first at Dean’s fly and then at his own, freeing their flushed and dripping erections from the confines of their pants, with little sighs ghosting over both their lips.

And just like Dean thought, Castiel is thick indeed. His cock is engorged and gorgeous, drooping heavily with their position, but still achingly hard for Dean. There’s something to be said about having a man as attractive and wild and gentle as Castiel on top of him and being treated to the sight of an erection that is only as swollen because he enjoyed being close to Dean so much, because he had so much fun kissing and touching Dean and because they finally got to be intimately close again. And Castiel might not be the first man Dean has managed to arouse to the point of him being so erect that it looks almost painful, but it’s the first time Dean took real pride in it.

“I do hope your smile is the result of a sight that you are satisfied to see instead of one that has you feel like laughing,” Castiel teases and brushes his smile against Dean’s – one Dean wasn’t even aware of until just now pointed out.

At that, Dean can’t help but to actually laugh a bit. “I would’ve thought you’d like making me laugh.”

“Which I do,” Castiel agrees, and how his eyes soften at Dean’s laugh and how his own smiles grows suggest his words to be nothing but the truth, “but there’s a time and place for either, though I am usually not adverse to combining them. But at this moment, I would rather make you _moan.”_

And just like that, Castiel takes both their erections in hand, squeezes them together in a way that immediately has Dean choke on his comeback, that has him buck up and that has him moan, just like his Dom wants him to.

Castiel laughs around his tongue licking over his lips, curved up into the faintest of self-satisfied smiles. He doesn’t say anything, though. He just keeps watching Dean closely, his eyes in a state somewhere between lit up with amusement and darkened with arousal, and gently yet demanding, he guides their entwined hips towards where he still has a hold on their erections. He shushes Dean when he whines out the very moment their hands come into contact with their neglected and weeping cocks, and leads them further, with their hands closing around their lengths, the palm of either of them wrapped around the heated, silky skin of the other.

There’s a moment of silence as they adjust their grip and their hands, eyes flitting between cocks and the other’s gaze, and they just breathe for a few moments, for the last moments, in the calm before the storm.

And then, finally, _finally,_ does Castiel do his first tentative thrust in. Just a small one, barely anything more than a jerk of his hips, testing the waters. But as they both see that their grip holds true, Castiel thrusts again, more confident. Their fingers tighten around the other’s hand and length, and then Dean puffs out a shuddering breath and hitches his hips up, into the tight tunnel of their hands, right along that nice and thick cock against his own. And then, when Dean lets out the softest of whimpers, unable to keep it inside as he at last gets the taste of something he’s yearned for for so long, that’s when the dam breaks.

Castiel gets the next thrust in, but Dean fucks up right after, the friction as ecstatic as the tightness, as the heat, as the way their eyes meet, wide and wild, open in wonder and lust, searching to share their every sensation.

Dean’s free hand returns to Castiel’s shoulder, digs into the flesh once more, and Castiel relishes his grasp with a groan and a pumping of his hand around them. Dean tugs and Castiel pushes, and then all of Castiel’s weight is on top of Dean, all of him covering him, their hands sandwiched in between their bellies, forbidding them from moving anything but their hips, to do anything but rut and pant in their chase for relief.

“Cas,” Dean moans, and it’s a plea, one that is not properly spoken by his lips, but demonstrated by them nonetheless, as they brush over Castiel’s jaw and cheek, leaving hopeful little kisses in their wake. And Castiel might get what Deans wants, and if he doesn’t, then he might have had the same need swelling inside of him because he turns his head around, his lips against Dean’s, unifying in a kiss again.

Their fist is wettened, the slide going easier in the pre-come dripping out and being caught by frantic fingers and cocks, always fucking back in, against one another. It’s so wet and tight that it has Dean imagining what he’s fucking into being not just a fist but a hole, and then it has him imagine what Castiel is fucking not being a fist but a hole, _Dean’s_ hole in specific, him being wet and tight for his Dom, welcoming him into his body as Castiel ruthlessly and frantically uses him.

Dean’s moan gets swallowed by Castiel’s mouth, is being rewarded by teeth dragging against his bottom lip and nipping at it just enough for a tease and a demonstration of self-control all the same. Though what is left of that self-control seems to erode with every single trust, with Dean moaning in a steady stream of approval right in between Castiel’s lips and teeth.

It seems to quite literally feed Castiel’s lust because the jerking of his hips becomes uncoordinated and sloppy, desperate with a vengeance, and his eyes flutter open and closed, slits of blue where Dean’s must be a heady, darkened green that seems unable to let go of the sight of Castiel above him.

Castiel makes a muffled sound into Dean’s mouth, something that might have been his name in another lifetime, and clenches his eyes shut, then rips them open wide, desperate to keep them open. And it’s that desperation that’s obvious in every taut line of his body, along with his thrusts losing all sense of rhythm and his self-proclaimed reason, along with Castiel looking down at Dean, as Dean is writhing and moaning and calling Castiel’s name into his mouth, so obviously taken in by nothing but delight and overwhelming pleasure, feeling as good as he possibly could, and it’s with that that Castiel groans and thrusts one last time and spills himself out over their fist.

And as he spills over, so do Dean’s eyes and his mouth with moans, so does Dean _himself,_ with Castiel’s name broken on his lips and endless sloppy thrusts of his hips, as he is filled to the brim with all that is good and lovely and _Cas,_ as he lets go messily and wet and all over both of them.


	14. XIV

At first, there’s a sense of not much. Calling it floating might not be entirely accurate, though Dean does indeed feel apart from his body and any physical plane and it is the closest Dean would get to defining it. Other somewhat accurate terms would be flow, fullness, void, ecstasy, comfort, balance, self-acceptance.

The next thing he is aware of – which is also what makes him almost forget about that strange, undefinable sensation – is a dragging wetness against his cheek and a low murmur reaching his ears and a hand stroking in a slow and sticky circle over his tummy.

Which is how he comes to his senses again; with Castiel’s hand caressing his belly and his lips pressing sloppy kisses onto his skin, all over his face. It’s also Castiel’s lips from which the steady and quiet murmur stems; it’s not all that audible, his words don’t seem to make much sense, but from what Dean can gather as he struggles to tune in, it’s little terms of endearment, praise that warms him from the inside out, “Such a good boy”, “My beautiful Dean”, “So lovely and perfect for me”, and breathless hushes of his name.

Dean supposes that it’s of no further import; that he might as well just keep lying there, with Castiel still half on top of him and half pressed to his side, with that warm hand putting just enough pressure on Dean’s belly and come-ruined dress shirt that it doesn’t tickle, with those low words maybe not returning the heat but that steady warmth, with no expectation of him but to do just that, to lie there and accept his reward. His reward for – well, being rewarded. For being taken care of. But no, that’s not quite right either, is it? It’s for _allowing_ to be taken care of.

Dean sighs out deeply and leans into the kisses wandering all over his cheek and jaw and every now and then to the sensitive tips of his ears, putting tiny kisses to them, just small pecks to where his ears are a bit pointed and still freckled.

Castiel’s lips brushing the corners of his mouth and the little wrinkles by his eyes makes Dean think of another word that he could use to describe how he feels in this moment, one that might be the most accurate of them all: _serene._

He lifts his hands, until now just lying limp and uselessly by his side, and reaches with them for Castiel’s hair and the biceps that leads to the hand with which he is caressing Dean’s belly. As he cards his hand through Castiel’s hair – as much as he can despite the somewhat awkward angle –, there’s a deep rumble coming from Castiel’s throat, almost like a purr, the sound of a satisfied creature.

Castiel lets Dean pet him for a while, doing nothing but watching him watch him, his lips still working every now and then against Dean’s skin, but with less fervour now. It’s as if Castiel is all too content to have Dean lavish some attention onto him now, for him to balance out the amount of petting that has been given and received between them – in this moment, at least, leaving both of them busy with caressing each other to an equal amount. Because like this, there’s Castiel’s hand stroking Dean and Dean’s hand stroking him, and it seems only fair and, above all, just really nice, for them to lie there and exchange affectionate touches with the other.

It seems secure.

“Do you feel better now?” Castiel asks, voice raspy and pleased.

And that’s a bit of a weird question to Dean, because really, he’s been feeling pretty fucking _amazing_ for the last hour or so, and beyond that, he finds he has a hard time remembering anything else.

So, all he does is ask, “Hm?”

Castiel makes a sound that is a bit more than a snort but not quite a laugh and presses a quick kiss to the curve Dean’s cheekbone. “Are you not as sad anymore?”

Dean vaguely remembers what has led Castiel to this question; that sadness that started to grow with each day of the week, that loneliness that Castiel was so hung up on, that fear of having to face all of this by himself, over the course of this weekend and beyond. Thinking that this will be his past experiences all over again.

Dean would like to say that he’s wiser than this, that if Castiel hadn’t come to take care of him in the end, he would have been dead to him. The truth is, Dean probably still would have given in to him again anyway, the next time Castiel would have come knocking. Even though Dean knows he might drop indeed – and only now is he able to see that yeah, Castiel has been right, he was with one foot in a sub-drop – and even though he has promised himself to never let himself be treated like this again, Dean isn’t sure he could be able to resist Castiel completely. Because it’s not just a leather belt and a hard hand that he is being offered by him, but hope and kind words to go along with it, to soothe him all the way through it, and always open arms.

That’s the difference Dean has clung to, deeply believed in despite it all. Hoping that Castiel will return to him, regardless of how he was never truly gone. Knowing that he would come to fix it. And he did – Dean’s faith in him was not for nothing. His lack of presence was not a lack of care, after all.

Even then, it’s not as if Castiel hasn’t taken care of him – they spent a wonderful night and morning together, the exact kind Dean thinks other people would think of when describing their perfect Saturday night and Sunday morning with their partners, with however they want to share their lives with. Just boundless and tender happiness. Which might have been the exact reason for why Dean had been about to drop in the first place.

How many times has his drops been out of shame for what he has allowed to be done to him and how many times for out of utter humiliation for what he has allowed himself to _enjoy_ being done to him? This, the shame that wouldn’t keep clinging to him, was what used to make his mind sluggish and his legs weak and his eyes damp. It was what always came along with a drop, what led to it, and Dean knew, he just knew, that whenever something particularly debasing was done to him and especially when he couldn’t help but revel in it, he was bound to drop.

And it’s why he hasn’t been able to recognize the beginnings of this drop for what it was. He hasn’t been feeling bad because he regretted what he has done, but because he _adored_ it so much. And not in a sheer kinky, ‘I know how filthy and wrong this is, that’s why I love it’ way. It was so good, so _fulfilling_ , that it left him empty and aching afterwards, when it was suddenly gone. Dean knows that Castiel wouldn’t look down on him for anything and only ever try to treat him well, that there is no need for shame with him – which is the very problem. Castiel and all of this, it’s almost too much; it’s too _good._

It’s too addicting.

“Yeah, thank you,” Dean agrees and nuzzles his head closer against Castiel’s, in spite of the feelings warring inside of him – because he chooses to ignore them for know, wants to just indulge himself. “I’m much better now.”

“I’m happy to hear that, although I wish you wouldn’t have had to be sad in the first place,” Castiel says in earnest and with his voice slow and sweet like honey. “I will keep to my promise of taking better care of you and I want you to keep your promise of telling me whenever you need to be taken care of.”

“And if I don’t?” Dean teases. “Are you gonna spank me for it?”

“No. If you don’t keep your promise, then no spanking at all will take place. Neither as punishment nor in any other context,” Castiel deadpans. Despite his clear-cut words, his hands are still busy petting any part of Dean they can access, and Castiel’s lips, too, are grazing his brows. He may be serious, but still playful. “I need to be able to trust you, Dean. In the same way that it is essential that you will come to fully trust me.”

At that, Dean wants to obediently offer up his neck and any other sensitive part right away again, something inside of him telling him to give in to an instinct that is far from just ordering him to be submissive, but also for him to please Castiel. To convince him that he already _does_ fully trust him. Which might be a lie, or a bit of one at least, because Dean does trust Castiel, much more than he has ever trusted any of his partners before, but maybe not _fully,_ not all the way. Not yet. Maybe there’s still a little step missing. Rightfully so, perhaps. And Castiel knows.

So, instead of lying and saying that he already does or instead of speaking the truth and risking to sadden his Dom, Dean just nods. “I keep my promises. Also, I told you not to worry and that it wasn’t even that bad. Sure, I didn’t feel too well, or maybe a bit worse than that, but it would have been bearable.”

Castiel makes a disgruntled sound. “The point of all this is not for you to have an experience whose effects will be ‘bearable’, Dean. The effects should be pleasant and keep you elated; you should enjoy our arrangement and our scenes, at any given point in time.”

“It was an one-off – it won’t happen again.”

“But how do you know, Dean? That had been the first time we have had a scene or been intimate with each other. You have no way of knowing if this might indeed only have been an ‘one-off’ or if this will become less of an exception and more of a rule. Which is why I need you to tell me, should you feel unwell again.”

“And if it happens too often, what then? Will you just blow the whole thing off?”

“Then we will find a way to prevent this together.”

“Yeah, right,” Dean snorts.

“I am absolutely serious about this, Dean.”

“I know and I appreciate that, but it’s just… you really don’t have to do that. I understand that, should this happen time and time again and I even tell you about it, you might want to consider to just drop me as a sub. I get it. Having to deal with me feeling bad about our plays would be something you haven’t signed up for to bother about, and I–”

“No,” Castiel cuts in sharply, and from where Dean can glance at his eyes, he can see them look all squinty and pissed. “I will never ‘just drop’ you, Dean Smith. As little as I will search for anyone else, just because _I_ fail to take proper care of my submissive. Making sure you feel good after a scene is as part of my job as making you feel good during it. Which doesn’t just include the immediate Aftercare, but also the long-term sort.”

“That sounds like a lot of work.”

“It’s a commitment I am honoured and happy to accept. There is more to this than just you offering up your body for my pleasure and you having to accept whatever it is that I want to do to you. I need you to see this.”

Silently, Dean blows out a breath. He can feel Castiel watching him as he does, and he already knows he won’t get out of this one. Either allow Castiel to go all the way – including letting him take care of Dean and also Dean telling him if he doesn’t feel too good – or no step further. It should be a simple decision, and in a sense, it is. But not completely. Because on the one hand, he doesn’t want to lose this arrangement and the attention of this man he longs to please. And on the other hand, he’s not sure how much of Castiel’s time and attention he should really be allowed to claim for himself; if even he wants all of that, this unerring focus on him and his needs. Letting Castiel fuck him and play with him every now and then is one thing, but having someone who is striving to become the next CEO of Sandover waste precious time on Dean just because he’s unable to just enjoy their scenes without coming away with a boo-boo? That’s a whole other story.

In the end, Dean just nods, his hair brushing against Castiel’s cheek. Because yes, he might not be deserving of all this, but despite being aware of it, he is _selfish._ He wants Castiel close and kissing him, sending him cute messages and asking him how he’s feeling, staying late after work to help him or make him come undone. After all, if Castiel already offers all of this on a silver plate, Dean isn’t strong nor selfless enough to decline, and he would be downright dumb to do so. He wants this. _All_ of it. The whole nine caring and sex yards.

And anyway, he _did_ already promise Castiel that he would.

“Fine,” Dean says, well-aware that he sounds like a sulky child giving in to something he’s not really in the mood to. “Let’s try to figure this out.”

“Very good,” Castiel rumbles out, and not only does he sound feline as he does, he also snuggles even closer to Dean, takes the hand on his belly to sling it around it and pull Dean in. “We will figure this out together.”

That little reiteration draws Dean’s lips up into a little smile. “Yeah, okay.”

“And as we have now settled this and are still on the topic of working together, I wonder if you were amenable to me helping you out with your outstanding work duties now? After all, not only did I indirectly negatively affect your working performance during the week, but also very much directly kept you from completing your tasks this evening.”

Dean’s eyes, previously drooping in satisfaction and relaxation, suddenly tear open. “My tasks!”

“Yes.” Castiel kisses a unhurried line up the side of Dean’s face, right over his eyes and then his lids, leaving Dean no other choice but to let them flutter closed again, if only for the moment. When he blinks them open again, it’s to find Castiel’s softly smiling face in front of his own. “Let me help you, Dean. It’s work that needs to be done for me in any case, and I distracted you from it, so it is only right that I help you with it.”

“Did you do that on purpose? Keeping me from my duties with sex?” Dean asks suspiciously, to which Castiel just snorts. His snort falls somewhere between playful and caught.

“Of course not.” He strokes his thumb against the bare flesh of Dean’s belly, where his dress shirt has ridden up and gazes at him thoughtfully, yet still with an impish glint in his eyes. “What I would now like to do on purpose though would be to take you home after. I want to make sure you feel well, after this week and also after just now, and I want to spend more time with you to ‘figure this out’ over the course of the weekend.” Dean’s not reluctant, exactly, just a bit hesitant again about accepting a weekend with Castiel, as much as he would love to. Because really? There is nothing sweeter that he could think of than eating, bathing and waking up with Castiel again.

Luckily, Castiel’s next words seal the deal, dissipating any and all traces of possible hesitation. “I believe I have also given you the promise to put you over my lap and spank you thoroughly, and this as of yet unfilled promise has been weighing on my mind all week.”

Dean laughs softly. “Heavily, I assume?”

“Very much so.”

“Well, nothing to be done about that, then,” Dean says, all of him light-hearted and alight with happy anticipation.

“Does that mean you will spend the weekend with me?”

“If you help me quickly and well enough with my tasks that we will actually manage to get out of here this weekend, then yes.”

Castiel’s smile is wide and boyish, and it makes Dean remember rows of blushing emoticons and a single, drunken one blowing a kiss. “I know from our work together that – unless we will have to save a deal again, which would be likely to keep us here all night –, there are no tasks that should take us more than an hour to complete if we do them together.”

“There’s no deal to save,” Dean reassures him.

Castiel snort-laughs and presses one last kiss to Dean’s lips. “If that’s the case, then I will bring some paper towels for us to clean up and we will leave in an hour at the latest.”

Dean smiles as he chases the kiss and easily manages to win one more little peck from equally as smiley lips. “Sounds like a plan.”


	15. XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention/discussion of the following kinks: hand-feeding, food play, stuffing, weight gain, roleplaying, consensual roleplay of a non-consensual situation (rape fantasy) – The latter is discussed and immediately dismissed. For further information about the other kinks, please go to the end notes (spoilery summary!)
> 
> Also warning for Dean's minor food issues

It takes them a little over a half an hour to get themselves and their tasks together, and then they are finally done for the day, all dressed up and ready to go.

Approximately five minutes after locking all the doors and turning off the lights, they give each other a quick and merely waved ‘See you in a few’ in the underground garage, mindful of any security cameras or passers-by, enter their respective cars and then leave the garage in a slow and proper fashion. Both of them heading into the direction of Castiel’s apartment.

Because Castiel had left it up to Dean to decide at whose place they want to spend the weekend. Dean knows Castiel doesn’t want to pressure him into coming to his own place a second time or as much as he doesn’t want Dean to believe that he thinks his apartment is better anyhow, which is why he let him choose. So he did. Which Castiel accepted with a smile.

And yet, Dean can’t quite shake off the feeling that maybe, just maybe and just this time, Castiel would have liked to come and see his place, too. As, despite having known each other for more than half a year, Castiel has never been to Dean’s apartment before. And even now that they have gotten down and dirty, it somehow still feels weird to consider giving Castiel access to his living space; to his treadmill and to his books about either management or cooking or romance and to his sparse bedroom, with the big, clean bed and the tidy wardrobe.

Which makes Dean wonder if he’s reluctant to let Castiel in there because it still might be too intimate or just because his apartment is somewhat bland in comparison to Castiel’s.

Because sure, Castiel also isn’t some grand interior designer, far from it, but among the white curtains and beige sheets, there are unique and beautiful touches in there. Just little things that set this place apart, make it into something more than some ready-furnished rented place; the cups in the cupboard that have prints of cats ‘hanging in there’ and dolled-up monkeys and bumblebees all over them. An excessive amount of throw-pillows on the bed as well as on the couch, and occasionally on the floor. The couch itself, an almost comically huge thing that is so plush and comfortable and has already been part of one _very good_ memory that Dean can’t help but adore it. And the same is true for the rest of Castiel’s apartment.

It might not be home for Dean, not exactly, but close enough. It feels like a place where Dean can relax and enjoy himself, spend some time with Castiel instead of in his own empty and white four walls and still enjoy solitude if he so wanted to, in one of the many seldom occupied rooms. There’s always something new to explore there, so much to find out – so much to stay for.

That is why Dean has said, “Let’s go to your place,” when Castiel asked him where they want to spend the weekend, despite any hesitations. And when he pulls up to the front of Castiel’s apartment complex, Castiel driving past in his crappy Lincoln (and Dean will never understand why some as well-off as him hasn’t gotten a new, proper car already), in search of another empty parking space and while excessively signaling Dean with his lights in order to make sure that Dean knows that they have reached their destination, as if he hadn’t been here before and as if Castiel hasn’t just pulled past him, he already knows he’s made the right decision.

*

They don’t do much that evening, in terms of both sexual stuff and also in terms of any other things, really. Strung out from the week and the last vestiges of work, both of them choose to be okay with doing nothing more than ordering a pizza for Castiel and a salad for Dean and watching a cooking show to go along with it. Even though Castiel doesn’t know how to cook properly and Dean isn’t in the habit of eating any of the rich and delicious-looking meals presented on the screen or even those are so neatly printed in his cookbooks, they plenty enjoy watching the show. Maybe it’s because of the funny host, the hard-working candidates or because they are already so full from their take-out that they aren’t hungering for the food on screen, but for something else.

Because whenever the host cracks a joke, Castiel and Dean turn to look at the other to laugh and smile along and whenever something looks incredibly tasty, they look at each other with _something_ in their eyes. With a mutual heat that is only simmering, already stoked and extinguished enough when they were on the couch in Castiel’s office, and now it’s nothing more than a simple acknowledgment of attraction and of their arrangement, but nothing urgent or substantial. The most that comes out of it is Castiel putting his hand on Dean’s thigh, petting it so slowly that it takes some time for Dean to notice when he eventually stops to move it and just lets it rest there.

They watch TV until they are barely aware of what’s happening on screen anymore, then take one lazy, uneventful shower together, washing each other’s hair and body, and go to bed with Dean’s back against Castiel’s chest and their hands clutching each other and resting warmly on Dean’s tummy.

*

“Are there any rituals that you like to perform before or after a scene? This includes Aftercare as well.”

“None that I could come up with from the top of my head, so I’ll go with No. Though I, uhm, did like the bath we took together. And I liked watching TV and eating some food, and yeah. I’m not sure if any of that would count as a ritual, but maybe we could establish it as one?”

“Noted,” Castiel says, and he literally notes this down on the list, silently mouthing the words as he writes them into a big, empty box on the paper. “And did you like watching TV and eating food because you enjoyed both of them by themselves, or was it also we were together?”

Dean rubs his hand over the warm skin of his neck. “Both of them were good, but… with you, that’s also good. Better.” He clears his throat.

Castiel smiles softly down at his papers. “So, I think we could resume that you like to have company after a scene and that you enjoy, as one might say, creature comforts.”

“Yeah, that sounds about accurate.”

“Good. As for me, I need to be able to see after my submissive after a scene Even if you ever wanted to be left alone for some reason, I would need to have a way of being in contact with you and assuring that you are alright at the very least. Though being allowed to share the same room and more touches is preferable. Most of all, I enjoy to kiss and cuddle,” Castiel explains with a deadly serious face, “and your ‘creature comforts’ as well.”

“Heh,” Dean begins, and it’s hard to keep a pokerface when Castiel is keeping a pokerface of his own at all times, no matter how innocently ridiculous it is what he says. In the morning after their first scene, Castiel set a big mug with a grumpy-looking cat – that beared an uncanny resemblance to Castiel – right in front of Dean, looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘This is my favourite,’ and proceeded making breakfast, leaving Dean to his offered mug.

And Dean had to admit, when they were sitting on the small breakfast table in the kitchen and eating in silence, that the mug was kind of nice, pleasantly big and yet easy to handle. The little smile that was playing around the corners of Castiel’s mouth whenever Dean took a big gulp out of the mug might have played a part as well in why Dean liked it so much.

“Would you want to include the food more in our play?” Castiel shifts a bit where he sits, hunched over the breakfast table with nothing but two mugs of tea and a few sheets of papers – the List with a capital L – in front of him. “I admit that I do enjoy cooking for you and that I would like to expand on this.”

“How? I mean, as in what?”

“As in hand-feeding you, for example. I would love to be allowed to feed you in a sexual, but especially a non-sexual context. Before or after a scene, mostly. To include it as foreplay or Aftercare, or even just for the act of it, as a simple, stand-alone enjoyment.”

Dean can feel his heart rate pick up a bit at that. He has never before had someone ask him to feed him or anything, especially not in a _non-sexual context._ Because what? It would have made a bit more sense to him if Castiel had asked him whether he could put some cream and strawberries on his body and eat and lick them off of him, or hell, if he wanted to do body shots. Some tequila from Dean’s skin right down Castiel’s throat would at least make more sense than Dean lying around like a Roman king and being fed grapes. Or whatever.

And yet, there’s something about the image of Castiel feeding him that makes it sound not all bad. Such as Castiel’s fingers brushing against Dean’s lips when he puts a new bite into his mouth or Castiel choosing to spend all this and effort on preparing some food with nothing else in mind put to feed it to Dean or Castiel calling Dean a good boy when he has managed to eat up all that Castiel has offered and made for him. Those fingers brushing away and crumbs from Dean’s cheeks and asking him if he would like to taste something else now.

Dean can feel the heat rising in his cheeks as he licks his lips. “I think I wouldn’t hate that.”

But Castiel makes a dissatisfied noise and looks up at him. “Is that a Yes, No or a Maybe? Please, Dean, I need you to be clear about which box I should tick off.”

“It’s a may– yes.”

“A may-yes?”

“A Yes,” Dean clarifies, blushing.

“Good,” Castiel hums out, diligently ticking off what must be the right box, from what Dean can spy on the paper in its position upside-down to him. “How do you feel about stuffing and weight gain?”

“Eh,” Dean says, thoughtfully, “I don’t care for the stuffing. As for the weight gain,” he shrugs, “Maybe.”

“I see. Maybe we can discuss this once more sometime later, should either of us be particularly interested.”

“No, wait!” Dean hastily intervenes. “Make that a No for the weight gain as well. If it’s meant for me. No more pounds for me.” In a moment of mental absence, he hasn’t really thought about how he he couldn’t afford to gain weight and just went with. Just thinking about how nice it might be to be a bit softer for Castiel and to have Castiel like that bit more meat and to have him feed him some more to reward him for it. Whereas actually, Dean is one of the last people who should think about putting on some weight. Not only would it mean he would have to buy a new assortment of suits, he would also simply look disastrous. What with his soft belly and his meaty thighs and butt and that little pudge beneath his chin that just won’t budge, he’s in no position to gain _even more weight._ If Castiel wants to do it, then that would be all swell and well, but not Dean, no. Not his chubby self.

“Alright,” Castiel says, with his voice going up at the end there a little, making it almost sound like a question. He just looks at Dean somewhat strangely, maybe even calculatingly, and then ticks off the No next to Stuffing and the No next to Weight Gain. And puts a little question mark next to it. Dean doesn’t comment on it.

“And how do you feel about roleplaying?”

“You mean like doctor and patient or teacher and student or handyman and housewife–”

“–or secretary and superior,” Castiel concludes with a small smile that is more than verging on smug, and he must think himself very clever.

In any case, he is just clever enough to make Dean blush even more. “Is that, uhm. Shouldn’t that be a Yes because I guess in a sense, we already did that?”

Castiel huffs out a laugh. “I would say that that wasn’t roleplaying, exactly. Rather than reality.” Can’t argue with that. “But is that a Yes to roleplaying in general?”

“Yeah.”

“Understood,” Castiel says, and ticks off another box. But, from what Dean can see, there’s another indented line right beneath the roleplaying one, and it has Castiel’s face losing its humour and turning serious, almost stony.

“The next one is…” There’s a little crease digging itself between his eyebrows, and he looks at Dean with serious and so goddamn blue eyes. “Dean, I’m sorry, if you might be really interested in this, then I would try to go along with it as far as is possible for me and give you what you want. I am certain that we might find a way, as safe and sanely as we have done everything until now. I believe we can plan and talk about anything. But, I personally have very little interest in the next point on the list, which is consensual roleplay of a non-consensual situation.”

Dean’s brow furrows at that. “I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s an acting out of rape fantasies.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“No, I’m–” Dean can feel how the palms of his hands turn slightly sweaty in discomfort and he rubs his them against his soft pajama pants, the ones he was given by Castiel the night before and which he hasn’t been bothered to exchange for real pants yet, despite it nearing noon already. The very thought of Castiel forcing himself on him – or _pretending_ to force himself on him – makes his guts drop and his blood run cold. He likes the idea of Castiel pretending to be a teacher who spanks him for being mouthy or him being a patient who needs an urgent prostate check-up and gets more than he bargained for. Just light and sexy fantasies. Yeah, he would like those much more than seeing Castiel in any context that would, even by the looks of it, be in contrast to everything that they have tried to build. Because he gets what Castiel is doing between them, and he is doing the same in kind; building a foundation of trust and consent and honesty and fun. Something solid and, by any and all associations, nice. But nothing that would connect their sex with actual violence; nothing that would connect Castiel with baseless lack of autonomy. “I’m not interested in that, either,” Dean answers, mouth dry.

“I will tick it off with a clear No,” Castiel acquiesces, and immediately does as he says.

“Yeah, good,” is all Dean replies. And he can feel those pictures in his head fading already, but there’s still a lingering feeling of dread clinging to him, uncomfortable feelings for things that will never happen. Like some real wuss, he can’t quite shake it off, even as Castiel sits right in front of him, his face a mask of concentration as he ticks off the No column, looking like his real and breathing and tender dork self.

When Castiel puts down his pen to look all over the list again, probably skimming it for things they have already done or that Castiel himself would never want to do, Dean can’t help but swallow heavily. The wet click of it must be loud enough in the room, in this close proximity of theirs, for Castiel to hear it and look up. He immediately looks concerned.

“Dean, are you alright?”

Dean nods hesitatingly. “I’m fine.”

“Are you really?” Castiel probes, because honestly, Dean wouldn’t believe himself either. The way he’s averting his gaze and wringing his hands might be a bit of a give-away. But just a bit.

“Yeah.”

Castiel, graciously, doesn’t keep probing, but just remains still for a moment, and the way he must be shifting and turning the thoughts in his head is almost palpable, tense. Dean wonders if he will call him out on his shit again, tell him that he is not supposed to be lying about his well-being, just like he promised to.

What Castiel does instead is ask, against Dean’s expectations, “May I kiss you?”

And Dean breathes out heavily. He can’t help but think how this is an _excellent_ idea, even though he doesn’t really understand where it’s coming from and how it would be in any way connected to what they have just discussed. Maybe Castiel has already moved on in his thoughts and is just acting on a whim. Either way, Dean is in no way opposed to it, actually in strong favour of a kiss. So, he nods and already leans forward for a bit, his eyes falling half-closed with the motion.

Castiel chuckles a little at that, but he doesn’t let any unnecessary time pass between Dean’s approval and his own move. Just as Dean leans forward, so does Castiel, with his hands reaching to tilt up Dean’s face with a few fingers brushing underneath his chin and his nose nudging guidingly against Dean’s cheek.

And just like that, just as easily, they are _kissing,_ close-mouthed and soft. With nothing but small presses of their lips and warm breath hitting the other’s cheek and closed lids, tiny movements of their mouths against one another.

Dean can feel his hands stop wringing and the tension leave his body, and he sighs out and plants his lips against Castiel’s, just with that little more pressure, but still no heat. Castiel makes a quiet, approving sound and lets him, doing nothing more than bumping his forehead against Dean’s.

They slowly pull away after a while, with Castiel’s thumb tracing along Dean’s jawline and down to where his pale skin is adorned by his marks, little red and bluish petals all over his neck.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, and Dean snorts at that.

“You’re welcome.”

Castiel’s gaze seems like he wants to share in on Dean’s humour, but can’t quite bring himself to do so yet, not before he has said whatever he thinks needs saying.

“Dean, we will never do anything you are uncomfortable with nor will I ever do anything without your consent. Your well-being and safety are very dear and absolutely elementary to me, and I won’t endanger either.”

He nods to himself, giving Dean a moment to take in those words. Not that they are anything new, per se. But for some reason, Dean thinks – as much as Castiel, apparently – that they are worth repeating. Which is good, because it does remind Dean of just who exactly he is with, what their boundaries are and where their foundation lies. Castiel’s words are grounding, reassuring. Which makes Dean nod as well, showing Castiel that he has understood.

“I know.”

“We are going through our list for this exact reason. So that we know what we want to do and what we will avoid at all costs. You’re safe and the thing we discussed and rejected a few minutes ago will never become part of our scenes, our arrangement or us,” Castiel explains, so fucking caring that, for the strangest of reasons, it reminds Dean of when he was six and just started school and thought he was a big boy. But then there was this thunderstorm that one night and he was so scared, all alone in his bed, and then, like an angel, his mom Jody came in, said nothing save for some soothing noises, cradled him to her chest and carried him into his parents’ bed, right next to his dad Bobby and his little sister Charlie, who was already there.

“No, I know,” Dean says, encouraging himself by looking at Castiel and his warm blue eyes and open face, “I know you won’t hurt me.”

The way Castiel’s face blossoms into the most beautiful of smiles, all proud and happy, curved up lips and crinkly eyes and scrunchy nose, makes Dean instantly forget about his worry and the anxiety from talking about the list, makes everything worth it.

“I won’t,” Castiel agrees, with a breathless quality to his voice, a note of amazement. It seems so easy to make him happy – it’s as if he barely needs anything than a little truth and trust from Dean for him to be downright floored and smiling. It makes Dean wonder if he gives off that same impression whenever Castiel easily gives him what he needs. Or if he just comes across as a little desperate and easy, in contrast to how endearing Castiel seems.

“Okay then,” is all Dean replies to that, because what else is he even supposed to say? That he, in turn, won’t hurt Castiel? He already knows that this is not a thing that would ever happen – that it would be in fact almost impressive if he could even manage to do that. “What else have you got on your list?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Dean are going through their kink list. They decide on a Yes for hand-feeding and roleplaying, whereas food play is not really discussed (but Dean thinks about it), and stuffing, weight gain and consensual roleplay of a non-consensual situation are being dismissed. It is hinted at that there might be a follow-up to weight gain. Dean reacts with anxiety to the discussion of the non-con roleplay and needs some comfort.


	16. XVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention/Discussion of the following kinks: kneeling, bondage, rimming, felching, pain play, humiliation play, age play, partner sharing, mutual masturbation, other things I’m too lazy to tag
> 
> Actual kinks happening: spanking, oral sex (among others)

“So, our further changes to the list are a Yes to kneeling – as long as you do not have to kneel on hard ground or for too long –, as well as a Yes to bondage – although a No to stringing up or hog-tieing. And Yes to face riding and rimming in general, and a Maybe on felching. We are both also in agreement on a Yes to pain play, although nothing excessively painful or permanent. A No when it comes to partner sharing, age play and any type of humiliation. And a Maybe on switching, as we want to explore you being the penetrated partner and me being the penetrating partner first. Is all of this correct or do you have any proposals for modification, Dean?”

“Yeah, no, this sounds about right,” Dean agrees, clearing his throat.

“Excellent,” Castiel says as he shuffles the papers of their list, checking through what is ticked off.

“Is that all? I mean, everything on the list?” Dean says, squirming.

For close to an hour now, Cas and him have been talking through all kinds of kinds, explaining what they would entail and which of them they would like to do to the other or have been done to them. And it has been a bit of a turn-on, to say the least. Castiel talking in explicit detail about what felching is and about all the ways he could go about coaxing his own come out of Dean, with his fingers and his tongue and various toys, has been almost too much for Dean and his chubbed up dick. He’s stammered out a Maybe on it and Castiel has noted it down as such, but his secret little smirk as he did so made it seem like he was well-aware of there being no Maybe about this. That Dean felt a definite Yes about Castiel lapping his own come out of Dean’s hole.

Dean swallows heavily.

“Ah, no, Dean” Castiel says, “there’s still more on the list -- and I will give you a copy of the current one -- but I think that we can work through it a few steps at a time, as I don’t see the need to hurry through it. I much prefer discussing each point in the list in detail, so that both of us know what we agree to. Furthermore,” he takes all sheets belonging to the list, which must be about five or more, neatly adjusts them and puts them down into one clear stack, off to the side of the table, “I do believe that there is something that both of us have already agreed on a week ago, and that I would like to finally try it with you. That is, of course, unless you have changed your mind about spanking.” Castiel raises his eyebrows in a silent question, showing that he genuinely means to give Dean the opportunity to decline.

Dean just sits still and silent, ears perked up eagerly, no matter how surprising the change in topic is, and waits for Castiel to continue, to properly speak out his suggestion. And what Dean suspects him to be about to suggest, his dick is certainly on board for already.

“If you haven’t,” Castiel resumes, apparently encouraged to go on by Dean’s silent interest, “then I would like to ask you whether you would allow me to put you over my lap and spank you until you beg me to stop.”

And well, if that isn’t music to Dean’s ears.

"Yeah?” Dean asks, unable to stop himself from grinning and his pulse from picking up a beat. He’s waited for this for far too long. “Are you finally gonna punish me for being a bad boy? Show me what’s in store for me if I’m not good?" Dean wiggles his butt a little where he’s sitting on his chair, probably looking like a kid that’s way too excited on Christmas morning.

"I believe that both of us know that you will enjoy this far too much for it to serve as any sort of punishment." Castiel doesn't look like he minds either way, though. Rather, he looks rather pleased, possibly even thrilled at Dean’s excitement. "Also, as I have told you before, I would have no reason to punish you for anything, when up until now, you have been nothing but a good boy for me."

Dean quietly smacks his lips at that to stave off the flush threatening to creep up his cheeks. Damn Castiel and his inability to either not recognize Dean’s attempts at dirty talk as such or to just accept them for what they are, even if they might put Dean down a bit or imply him to be anything but the good boy Castiel insists he is. "It was supposed to be a joke," he explains, lamely and while being only half-honest.

Castiel just makes a thoughtful sound at that and slowly, with apparently all the time in the world, raises himself from his seat. “Then I apologize for not laughing,” Castiel says, but not unkindly, and as if to offer Dean a consolation prize and a sign of good faith at the same time, he quirks a small smile at him.

“‘s fine,” Dean mumbles.

“Good,” Castiel soothingly rolls out over his smiling lips, and that’s so not fair. “Does that mean you would still want to continue as suggested?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, still a bit sulky but with growing anticipating nonetheless.

 _“Dean,”_ Castiel says, and it’s sharper this time, clearer in a strange way, as if Castiel is trying to make Dean’s name as much as every syllable that will follow count. It has Dean immediately turn his gaze towards him and sit up straighter, suddenly feeling like he should cut the bullshit immediately. “What is your colour?”

And Dean takes in a surprised breath at that, and while he can practically feel how his blood starts rushing faster in his veins, he sits up straighter still, until he looks good and proper for Castiel. _Presentable._

“Green,” he says, somewhere between a hush and a solid statement.

Castiel looks him over at that, takes in his face, his posture, the excitement that is probably evident in every line of his body and in every breath he draws.

“Good,” Castiel concludes. “Then I want you to go into the bedroom and undress there, completely. Our robes from last night’s shower should be dry by now and hanging in the adjoined bathroom -- I want you to put on either your bathrobe or mine and come into the living room and wait there for me. There, I will undress you fully, caress your skin at my leisure and then spank you.” He pauses for a bit, giving Dean some time to digest the information he just gave him. “Is all of this understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. In that case, commence,” Castiel says, and Dean scrambles.

Dean knows his way around the apartment well enough now. He quickly walks out of the kitchen and through the dining room that, according to Castiel, is seldom made use of. From there, he makes his way down the corridor, past the open living room, the guest rooms, the office and whatever else lies hidden and not-so-hidden behind those doors. The bedroom, at least, is somewhat hidden: there’s a little turn in the corridor and two steps that Dean has to take to get up the small plateaued square in front of the bedroom’s door. It gives all of it a bit of a penthouse feel, Dean thinks, especially because the windows in the bedroom are gratuitous enough to almost stretch out over the whole wall, opening up the room in an almost impossible way. Yet, the apartment is thankfully so up high that there is no neighbouring building that could spy inside or obstruct the flow of the sun that, even on a cloudy day, floods the room with light.

Such as now, when Dean steps inside and dutifully closes the door behind himself.

The bedroom looks just as messy and used as they have left it. The night before, neither of them could have been bothered to care where the bedspread or the superfluous pillows, put there by Castiel’s housekeeper, landed. All they did was yank the covers up, snuggle in under them together, share Castiel’s big memory foam pillow, then fall asleep with Castiel’s arm hung loosely around Dean and Dean’s back resting against his chest.

In the morning, they still didn’t care about the bedspread, the pillows or the piles of discarded shoes and clothing. So, all they did was brush their teeth and wash their faces and then trot into the kitchen, where they ate some seriously buttered and honeyed toast, drank the richest-tasting coffee Dean has ever had in a private household and just lounged around and talked about their upcoming mayor elections and their favourite foods for a bit, until Castiel suggested for him to go and get the list.

Which is why Dean now finds himself awkwardly shuffling around his shoes and a pair of pants and a dress shirt that might be either his or Castiel’s -- it would need a good wash in any case, what with the white stains he can spy on it -- and into the en-suite bathroom. There, he luckily finds their bathrobes to have indeed been hung up to dry and them looking all shiny and expensive again.

The robes are probably less bathing robes rather than dressing gowns, or at least that is what they would be called where Dean grew up. They are all silk and shimmer and most likely not meant to be used to be donned while still wet and naked, yet that’s what they did the night before. Castiel certainly looked like he couldn’t care less about the proper use of the robes as he coaxed Dean out of the shower and his arms into the robe’s sleeves, rubbing his skin dry with the costly fabric of them and smiling at him.

Dean takes his robe from the hook, steps back out into the bedroom and, after making his way through the mess again, carefully lays it down on the ruffled blanket.

It looks displaced there, on the sheets that would need the caring hand of a housekeeper or a less dismissive attitude of the head of the house and his guest. Like it would be at a more fitting place in a period drama or in one of those really sensual and expensive erotic films. Simply not here, air-dried and against the background of a well-used and messy bed. And yet even then, Dean knows it will look even more displaced on his body.

Because robes like these, silk and expensive threads, were not made for the likes of him. They shouldn’t be bulging over bellies that sick out or a way too meaty butt or upper arms that they will strain around. They were made for people like Castiel, flawless in personality and looks and his every action. People like him who, in another time and at another place, would have worn nothing but robes that were long and flowing and precious, becoming of him and immediately distinguishing him as royalty maybe or some successful merchant.

Then again, with every piece of clothing that Dean is now starting to put off and carefully folding and setting down on the bed, he is thankful that he will be able -- or allowed -- to put on this robe, at least. No matter how much it will be bulging and displaying every dip and inch of his body in the least merciful ways. Because he can’t even imagine strutting out there, back into the living room, all bare and exposed, jiggly and vulnerable fr Castiel’s eye.

He knows by now that his body is certainly not repulsive to Castiel and that he might derive some genuine pleasure from it. Castiel did, after all, kiss his every inch. But that still doesn’t mean that he is overwhelmed by the beauty of Dean’s body or whatever, and it also doesn’t mean that Dean has to show him quite plainly just how flawed and certainly no reason for arousal his body is. And, above all things, Dean simply doesn’t feel comfortable in his own skin, not enough to be confidently naked.

He tries not to think about it as he sheds the last of his clothing at last, the pants of his pajama and his briefs soon folded and set before him. Because he knows that what is happening right now isn’t about that, not about why he isn’t too keen on showing off all of his body by the light of day instead of the lazy and dark buzz of the night. No, this is about what Castiel commanded him to do, what Castiel wants to see. If he tells Dean to undress and put on a robe, Dean obeys. Should he tell Dean to put off the robe again and openly display his body to him, then that is something he will do, too. If Castiel tells him that he wants to see his body, then Dean has to believe that he does want to see it. There’s no room for anything else here, not for Dean’s doubts nor his resistance -- only for Castiel’s commands.

And Dean is thankful for it.

So, he takes up his robe and shuffles it on, and the weightlessness of it only helps to emphasize the weight of the bitten and kissed collar around his neck, and just like that, the tips of his fingers feel tingly, feel _light._

As does all of him.

He takes a deep breath in and an even deeper breath out when he closes the belt of his robe around himself, making sure not to have any unnecessary skin peek out.

He wonders if the picture that he paints is as tantalizing as he feels.

In easy steps, he leaves the mess of the bedroom again, walks down the corridor and into the extensive living room, which is not separated from the corridor with a wall or anything, it is just a space that is always open for access and in whose center the impressive sofa sits.

And Castiel. Right there, he sits on the edge of the sofa, his back straight and his hands as open as his face, with his gaze directed without hesitation or shyness at Dean, as Dean steps inside.

Apparently and despite whatever Dean expected without ever properly formulating the expectation in his head, it hasn’t been Castiel’s intention to beckon Dean into the room and make him stand there by himself. Stand and wait and let his anticipation grow along with the anxiety, until Castiel would eventually strut into the living room, all confidence and confirmation that he could make Dean do whatever he wants, and then take his time to unravel him.

Instead, despite Castiel’s calm demeanour, Dean feels that there might be that same spark of overwhelming excitement in his eyes and that can be found in all of Dean’s body. The realization of which flatters Dean, has heat invade his senses and his dick, and makes it all the easier for him to remain standing up straight and obedient at the threshold of the living room, only a few steps inside, hands clasped behind his back and waiting for his Dom’s further command. His approval.

Castiel smiles.

“Please, Dean, come closer. Let me see you,” Castiel beckons benignly, his smile even audible in his voice.

So Dean does as he is told to and comes closer, is helplessly drawn to where Castiel is sitting on the sofa, off to the one side of it that is one of the few places he could have taken seat without having the couch table in front of it, where it could limit where Dean could stand. There’s free space in front of Castiel now, nothing but the plush carpet stretched out in front of him.

Dean’s anticipation leaps up higher with every step that he makes forward. Yet, he keeps walking, towards that smile and the unerring and tender gaze on him, to his Dom that is waiting on him, pleased and with the promise of joy in his hands.

Dean comes to a halt right in front of Castiel. He’s so close that his knees are almost touching Castiel’s, that Castiel could almost feel and yet quite possibly already see the slight tremble that goes through his body. Castiel doesn’t comment on it, though. He just keeps up that pleased expression and looks Dean up and down, excruciatingly slowly, pausing with leisure at Dean’s face and the marked up throat below it.

Dean can hear him breathing, deep and unhurried, and he tries to match his own breathing to his, tries to take on some of the calm, and to draw confidence from it.

“Very good, Dean,” Castiel praises him. “You have done exactly as I told you.”

Which was easy enough. All he had to do up until now was undress and put on a bathrobe. “I have barely even--”

“Now, for today,” Castiel cuts in, not breaking his calm while he does, “I want you to do something I realize might be a bit difficult for you. But I know what a good boy you can be already, so I have no doubts that you will manage to complete even a more challenging task such as this.” His gaze is heavy with meaning as he catches Dean’s. “I want you not to object me when I praise you. You may speak and make sounds to your heart’s content otherwise, but whatever I say about you, I want you to wordlessly accept. No objection and no thanks, just you listening and remaining quiet when I do. Do feel free to express any approval through moaning, though,” Castiel jokes softly, but it doesn’t really help take away any of the sense of dread that is creeping into Dean.

Dean sinks his teeth into his lips and keeps still and silent. It’s not like this should be a challenge, really, but who knows whatever praise Castiel will lavish him with today, who knows what kinds of things he will say? Dean has already managed to not move for him when he asked him to, so keeping his mouth shut should be easy as anything, but it feels like it won’t be. It already is. Not saying “No, I don’t want to do this, can we please try something else?” and instead to even regard the very idea of it as _manageable_ is already hard enough. _  
_

And yet, he has to try, at the very least. Castiel has asked him to do something, so he should follow. He knows that Castiel wouldn’t ask anything of him that he truly believes Dean incapable of, which means that he must think that Dean can do this. That he has faith in him. And if Castiel has faith in him, then that is all the faith Dean needs.

“Dean?” Castiel asks. “Do you think you can do this for me?”

A beat, then, “Yes, sir.”

“Your colour?”

“Green.”

Castiel nods, his smile returning. “Good.” He then lifts his hands and reaches for Dean’s robe-covered thighs, stroking them up and down at his own leisurely pace and with a pleased expression, then he pulls them closer to himself, guiding Dean to stand in his warmth, in the V of his legs.

Dean allows him to fondle him freely, and he even gets used to it so much and so quickly that he misses Castiel’s touch when he lets go of him again and reaches even higher, to the knot of the bathrobe’s belt, the only thing helping Dean stay covered, the only barrier left between them.

“May I?” Castiel asks, his voice barely above a whisper, as he keeps his hands in suspense above Dean’s belt.

And Dean is not sure if he really wants to, if he can deal with his own nudity and the kind words he won’t be able to reject, but he knows he has to trust Castiel and himself, has to trust _them_ that he will enjoy this and make it out okay. Make it out _better._ “Yes, sir.”

So, Castiel opens the knot with ease and practiced fingers and the soft, silken sound of the belt loosening, and as easy as anything, Dean’s robe falls open, the belt slipping down as well, only the latter dropping to the ground, partly exposing Dean.

And just like that, the most vulnerable parts of Dean are bared; this neck and his chest and his belly and his half-hard dick. It’s only that thick stripe where his robe is open that he is naked, but going by how sensitive the already displayed parts are, he might as well be fully in the nude.

Castiel’s eyes roam the dips and curves and warm skin that has been laid open for his gaze, and as much as his eyes seem to be drawn to the purplish marks decorating Dean’s throat, he must also be rather taken in by Dean’s nipples and the swell of his tummy, going by the amount of time spent looking at them.

“You are so breathtaking,“ Castiel sighs out affectionately. “I will probably never tire of being allowed to see and touch you. None of the ways I ever imagine you to look like come even close to how beautiful you really are.”

Out of pure instinct, Dean snorts at that. Because he might be many things, and even he can admit that his face doesn’t hurt to look at at least, but to call his _body_ of all things beautiful or _breathtaking_ is plain-out ridiculous.

And as he opens his mouth to say exactly that, to point out how meaty his thighs and how unseemly his belly is, he notices Castiel watching him, looking him in the eyes. Calm, cool, determined. Patient, and yet waiting -- for what Dean has yet to realize -- with one creased brow.

And it’s at that that Dean understands and snaps his mouth shut, gets a grip of himself and lowers his gaze, ashamed.

This right there, this has been the only task Castiel has given Dean for tonight, and he already been halfway into slipping up. At the _very first_ words of praise ever since Castiel told him to keep his mouth shut. Wow. Dean would almost be impressed by himself, if he wasn’t so damn disappointed. Because how did he even manage to do that? How can he have forgotten the command that has been given to him within the span of five minutes or less? Just how useless is he?

Instead of berating him for his error and interrupting whatever Castiel was doing in favour of punishing Dean for his slip-up -- and what that punishment would entail, now that spanking isn’t really on the table for it, Dean has no clue --, Castiel puts his hands on him.

Not slapping him, not shoving him, just both palms open and warm, gently laid on the helplessly exposed skin of Dean’s sides and belly. And within the first moment, Dean believes that Castiel might still try to hurt him this way, that there will be pain in those hands. A rough punishment for Dean’s self-flagellation.

Instead, Castiel starts running his hands up and down, as softly as feathers tickling his skin.

And with it, Dean realizes that there _won’t._ That despite his slip-up, there won’t be harsh hands or an abrupt end to their scene, but that Castiel will still touch him tenderly. That he won’t just discard him after one mistake or discipline him with blows to his belly or genitals to make him see the error of his ways. He will still take care of him and give him another chance, even when Dean barely deserves it.

Dean feels like crying.

And this even more so when Castiel just makes a little shushing noise while he caresses Dean’s skin in soothing circles. “Such a good boy,” Castiel cooes, “your first instinct was to contradict me and to put yourself down, but you caught yourself and didn’t. You overcame yourself and did as I told you to.” He leans forward to bridge that tiny bit of distance that lies between them and nuzzles his nose into the soft pudge of Dean’s belly, planting a soft kiss above his navel. “Now remember to keep to it. Remember to obey to me.”

“I will. It won’t happen again, sir,” Dean gasps, weak in the knees and in his voice by the way Castiel’s nose and lips carefully trace over his sensitive skin.

“I know it won’t. Because if it did, there would be no spanking for you. What I would have you do would involve no touching at all,” Castiel darkly promises. “For your punishment, I would make you sit at the other end of the couch, as far away from me as possible, and make you touch yourself. None of my fingers on you, only my gaze, as you would have to bring yourself off. And I would do the same, from my seat here, while I watch but never let you touch me. While I would never touch you.”

Dean whines and writhes pathetically beneath Castiel’s hands. Because he wants to be spanked and touched by Castiel, wants to be close to him and help him take pleasure from his body and their activities, be the one to be responsible for Castiel’s orgasm. And yet, even if the alternative doesn’t sound as appealing as any of this, Dean has to admit that watching Castiel masturbate and having him watch him do the same does carry an appeal of its own.

“Unfortunately, this sounds as though you would not consider this course of acting quite a punishment either.” Castiel hums as he keeps running his hands up and down. He seems amused. “Oh Dean, what am I to do with you?”

“I’m sorry,” Dean half-whines because he knows he should be embarrassed by how needy and easy he is.

“Yet, you shouldn’t be. Because _I_ am really, really not.” Castiel smiles at him and leans all of his upper body forward, keeping his hands securely wrapped around Dean’s body, and presses his smile briefly into Dean’s skin, this time right onto his navel. “I adore how receptive and enthusiastic you are for our plays,” he whispers and kisses a bit lower, the especially soft pudge of Dean’s lower belly. It tickles, and feels really nice. “I adore how sensitive you are to my touches and words.” His kisses wander lower still, down the path a happy trail would go if Dean didn’t shave it off, and to the edge of his neatly trimmed hair. “I adore how eager to please you are and how good you are at actually doing so. You are pleasing me.” His next kiss is barely more than the breath of one, just a soft little thing to the root of Dean’s cock. “Always pleasing me, Dean.”

Dean whimpers and pants, his gaze plastered to Castiel’s hair and face and especially those lips, still hovering around his helpless erection. He knows he can’t reject all that praise in any way, and it’s _so hard_ to accept it, so unnatural for him. And yet, at the same time, there’s too many kind words anyway that he would have to object to -- it would be exhausting to think about why each and every one couldn’t possibly be right, in the same way that it would be impossible to find reasons for why Castiel shouldn’t rightfully keep doing what he’s doing then. All those arguments for why Dean doesn’t deserve this.

So, it’s almost refreshing to not have to debunk and reason against all of this. He doesn’t even have to believe whatever Castiel is saying; all he has to do is keep quiet whenever he says something far too nice again and just enjoy Castiel’s kisses and hands on him.

Castiel holds his gaze while Dean internally resigns and simply settles on the conclusion that there isn’t much he’s able to do, that he will just let Castiel do as he wants to.

And maybe, there’s a tell of him accepting or resigning to his fate, or whatever term would be most appropriate. Because as soon as Dean decides to leave Castiel free reign in his words and in his touches, Castiel rewards him with a tiny kiss to the tip of his cock and purrs, _“Good boy._ So, so good.”

And this, too, Dean can’t object to, so all he does is let the heat of those words and of that chaste yet filthy kiss wash over him and smile. Which in turn makes Castiel smile, too, and just like that, they are laughing for a few moments, Dean more giddy than anything and unable to control his giggles, drunk of the building elation.

And then, Castiel is pulling off Dean’s robe completely, lets it flutter to the ground with a soft swooshing sound, and Dean is completely naked before him, vulnerable in any which way, but he doesn’t feel like he is. The unashamed hunger in Castiel’s eyes makes him feel desirable, Castiel’s affectionate hands roaming his skin make him feel safe, Castiel’s unerring confidence and faith in him make him feel joyful and _invincible._

Dean moans happily when Castiel showers his cock in little kisses, from the tip to the root, even down to Dean’s sensitive balls, and especially when he then parts his lips around the head of his erection, doing barely more than catching that little drop of precome with his his lips, wetting them with it.

Castiel’s mouth is warm and snug around him as he puts one long kiss to the head, one so lingering that he eventually begins to slowly draw Dean’s cock inside it, the pull of it inexorable and incredible. And Castiel barely even does more than take the head of Dean’s cock into his mouth and suck on it, hunched over as he is to reach Dean’s length, both of his hands still firmly cupping Dean’s hips and keeping him right where he is.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean is more than aware of how even now, Castiel’s thumbs are rubbing soothing circles into his skin and of how tight Castiel’s throat is as he takes Dean down to the root. With his nose pressed into Dean’s neat hair and him breathing in deep and slow, almost meditative, while his throat tightens and twitches around Dean. But there’s such an onslaught of just genuinely _good_ sensations and emotions that Dean has troubles placing them and their sources, instead of just riding them out, unbidden. Riding into Castiel’s throat until Cas pulls off and gives him a sharp slap to his butt, one that makes Dean moan pathetically and makes his cock drip onto Castiel’s cheek.

To which Castiel reacts with a quirked eyebrow and a slow, very self-satisfied smirk.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Dean?” Castiel asks him, and he must be giving Dean some time to answer because between the actual question and Dean’s reply, Castiel appears to have kissed a whole path down towards the soft insides of Dean’s thighs and sucked a tiny mark into his skin on each side.

“Yeah,” Dean eventually replies, breathless.

“That’s very good. But I haven’t given you permission for something as naughty as to fuck my face, so you shouldn’t do that.”

“Y-yeah,” Dean stutters out, taken aback by Castiel’s filthy words and how it makes his cock drip out another pearl. “I’m sorry.” His words come out slow, yet honest.

“I forgive you,” Castiel reassures him as he kisses his way back up, bypassing Dean’s cock and the wet mess he has made of it, instead opting to press some kisses to his hip bones that are noticeable just so and to his tummy. “But I want to remind you of what we actually wanted to do. You wanted to show me how good and obedient you can be for me when you are lying over my lap and offering up your beautiful behind for me.” He squeezes that one handful of ass he still has, while his other hand is drawing broad strokes over Dean’s nipples and throat. “Do you still think you can do this for me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean breathes out. “I can be so good for you.”

“Will you do anything naughty without my permission again?”

“No. No, I’ll show you I can be a good boy. I will obey you, I will.”

“Excellent,” Castiel murmurs, putting one last kiss to Dean’s sternum, where the beat of Dean’s heart must be the strongest, and sits back.

Instead of giving Dean a command or pulling him into his lap, Castiel slowly looks up his body, making no attempt to hide that his gaze lingers particularly long on Dean’s erection now -- through which he easily ascertains that it will stay hard and nice for him for as long as he keeps looking -- and on his lips. It is only once he has checked over all of Dean’s body that he searches for his gaze, his blue eyes drawing Dean’s in.

Dean understands the silent command for what it is and catches Castiel’s gaze. He might be a bit slow to do so, what with the way his lids want to flutter and droop, but in the end, he manages to steadily look Castiel in the eye, showing him that he is still fully there, that he isn’t too deep in the haze to be unable to see what they are doing anymore, to consent. This garners him a proud little smile.

“Well done, Dean.” Castiel nods. “If it’s like this, then you may come here now to lie over my lap.”

The permission thrills Dean, has all of him on fire. _Finally._ He has been waiting so long for this, possibly even longer than he had been waiting for for anything else -- he surely never expected Castiel to approach him with the offer of becoming his play partner, after all, yet he has had his fair share of fantasies about what it would be like to have Cas put him over his knees or desk and discipline him for a bit. To maybe have him call him into his office one day and tell him to drop his pants and bend over.

So he shuffles, his body and mind on edge in the best of ways, onto Castiel’s knees. Castiel reaches around Dean’s back to put a hand on his shoulder while he grabs Dean’s elbow with the other hand and an encouraging smile. Like this, it’s easy for Dean to lie down on his thighs, all warm and thick, and let his bare cock press up against Castiel’s leg and the rough yet stimulating fabric of his cotton pants.

Without quite meaning to, he circles his hips in an attempt to rub his dick against Castiel’s pants a bit better now, but already after the second circle of his hips, there’s the sharp sting of a hand coming down onto the jiggly flesh of his ass.

“Dean,” Castiel says, voice low and dangerous, “I don’t remember giving you permission to rub yourself up against me, did I?”

“No, sir, you didn’t,” Dean pants out.

“Then why did you do?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Dean shudders out, just wanting to rub his cock against Castiel’s thick thigh again. “It just felt so good.”

“So you like feeling good, Dean? Is that it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If that’s the case, then you should behave yourself and only do what I tell you to. Because I know something that will make you feel even better than cotton pants and some friction. Something that we have been talking about already. Do you remember what that would be, Dean?”

“Spanking.” At Castiel’s expectant pause, he mumbles out, “We talked about you spanking me, sir.”

“And do you still want that?” Castiel checks once more.

“Very much, sir.”

“Very good,” Castiel says and lies a warm hand on Dean’s butt cheek, probably making it jiggle again.

Dean can’t find it in him to care about that or even lose any thought on it, though. On how soft and pudgy his body must seem. Instead, his mind is pleasantly simple, the usual buzz of anxiety and doubts gone, replaced by nothing but the clear commands of ‘Don’t object to praise’ and ‘Don’t rub yourself all up against Cas’. He relishes the simplicity and straight lines of it all; the knowledge that everything will turn out fine and that he will be good if he just does what Castiel told him to. Nothing more, nothing less. Just listen to Castiel’s orders.

“Now, Dean,” Castiel begins, with his hand still caressing Dean’s butt cheeks, stroking them so tenderly that it makes Dean’s other cheeks burn. “As you know by now, what I am about to do is not intended to be a punishment. Rather, it is meant to be a challenge. I want you to see this as your chance to prove to me just how good you can really be -- how much you can endure.” He pets down to the lower parts of Dean’s butt cheeks, where they meet with the sensitive insides of his thighs, and draws his hands up again when Dean lets out a little whine.

“If you manage to take all -- mmh -- twenty of my blows without coming or breaking any other rule, I will reward you for it. And the reward will be that you will be allowed to spill yourself in my mouth, just as you craved to do a few minutes ago. I will swallow you all the way down to your root again and pleasure you exactly how you want me to until you reach climax. And you won’t have to do anything else, just let yourself enjoy my mouth.” He lifts one hand and, without any hang-ups or hesitations, cards it through Dean’s hair. Just as gently as the hand working over Dean’s butt is. “Would you like that, Dean? Does this sound like a fair reward for you?”

 _“Yeah,”_ Dean murmurs, hot and breathy, only recognizing his mistake when both hands dig into where they are supposed to be petting him. “Yes, sir,” he is quick to correct himself, and the hands let up again, resume their caressing.

“I want you to count the blows out loud for me. Should you fail to do so, I’m afraid I won’t take the risk of accidentally spanking you for an incorrect number of times, and I will have to begin anew. Is everything understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In that case,” Castiel says, and the anticipation in his voice and however the air might be moved as he takes his hand away from Dean’s butt, and the breathless silence that follows has Dean’s arousal skyrocketing. 

“Don’t forget to count out loud for me, my gorgeous boy,” Castiel reminds him in a low voice, into the tense air between them. And in the very next moment, the tension as well as the swelling quietness breaks, is smashed apart as Castiel’s hand comes down hard and with a loud and resounding slap on Dean’s ass, on his sensitive skin.

Dean screams as the first blow hits him, writhes with it, a slave to his own arousal and to Castiel’s hand, helpless in how _amazing_ and _easy_ and _incredible_ this is. How good it feels, how this is just for him, just for them. Dean giving up his butt and any lasting pride to have Castiel tan his ass.

It takes him a second to realize that a scream is just a scream and that he has a job to do and blows to count, so he quickly calls out, “One!” and pushes his ass up and against to where he knows the next bout of sweet pain will come from.

“Good,” is all Castiel has to say, yet his body speaks louder for him, tells Dean a lot about this moment and the ones that came before it, about how much Castiel enjoys all of this too,  with help of the thick bulge teasing against Dean’s tummy.

And just like that, while Dean would like a moment to process how hard Castiel seems to be because of him, the second hard slap hits his skin. He couldn’t say if it hurts more or less than the last time -- he’s still caught up in the shock of being hit and in the pleasure of it, so that all he feels is hazy and hot. The only thing he knows for sure is that he has a number to call out, so the “Two!” falls quickly from his lips.

The third blow hits Dean’s right butt cheek and the fourth one his left. Dean almost whimpers in anticipation for the fifth, and then cries out in pleasure and pain alike as, just like he thought it would, the fifth blow does hit the sensitive valley where his ass cheeks meet, yet not quite his hole.

“Five,” Dean whimpers out as his fingers scramble over the sofa first, furtively trying to hold onto its cover or anything else that could dig his fingers into. There’s nothing there, though, not with only the sofa and the throw-pillows and not even the robe, yet what there is is--

“Six!” he yells, and without quite meaning to, he finds himself with his fingers grasping at one side of the sofa and at Castiel’s shirt, the cotton warm and yielding under his hand, and even more so when Dean scratches against the nipple hidden beneath it and pulls Castiel even closer.

Castiel puts a hand on the back of his neck, a silent command for Dean to retain his position instead of to keep grabbing for him, and it’s working so perfectly to keep Dean in place without pushing him into it and without forcing him to present, and yet, it’s still what Dean does, presenting his ass and exposing his hole, accompanied by a cried-out “Seven!” and ending on a loud and shameless moan.

Dean faintly thinks he can hear Castiel laugh when the next stinging pain comes, followed by the next, followed by one after that, as well as followed by desperate count of “Eight! Nine! Ten!”

And that’s when Castiel pauses for a bit, the hand on Dean’s butt putting it as gently as he would pet his head, and yet the petting stings and hurts and has Dean gasping.

“Already halfway done, Dean,” Castiel whispers in a voice that seems less affected by what they are doing than his cock, and yet Dean can still hear the rough traces in it. “You already managed to take ten blows, and there is only ten more to come. I know you will be able to take them, too. You already did so well until now and you will continue to do so until the end. I’m convinced of that. You are so beautiful and strong, Dean. So pliant and good. For me and my hand. For both of us.”

And Dean doesn’t even notice that he’s sobbing until the tears are already reaching his lips, softly and salty kissing them, and until his body is trembling with his sobs.

Why exactly he is crying and shaking, he couldn’t say. All that he knows is that there’s the pain from his ass and the arousing reassurance from Castiel’s hand on his neck and the warmth at those words that mixes with the heat, melting whatever was leaving him old and aching inside and flowing away.

“Shh, Dean,” Castiel whispers, stroking the back of Dean’s head and sliding a thick finger, probably his thumb, between Dean’s butt cheeks, in order to do nothing more than rub it back and forth over his dry hole. “Everything is fine and you are so perfect for me. I will show you just how perfect, in fact, if we complete your challenge and if I will give your outstanding blows. Do you want that, sweet boy? Do you want to show both of us how good you can be?”

“Yea-- yes, sir. Let me show you. Want to show. Want to see.”

 _“Good boy,”_ Castiel growls out, tightens his grip on Dean’s neck and, without further ado, harshly brings his hand down on the probably already cherry red skin again.

“Eleven!” Dean cries out as he cries for real, tasting the salt of his tears but not the bitter taste of the pain that he is so used to swallow. He is nothing but stings and slaps and screams and pure fucking rapture, and if he wasn’t so busy with sobbing and choking on his own spit already, he might laugh.

Yet, the loudest of sounds he is able to make -- apart from the loud, echoing smacks of skin on skin -- are the numbers, a Twelve and a Thirteen. He almost misses the Fourteen when Castiel strikes the hidden center of him again, this time actually gets half of a smack on Dean’s hole, which has him howl, which has him _wail._

Dean’s vision is swimming, and yet he sticks out his butt even more, hopefully revealing the little bud between his cheeks as if he wanted it to be hit again, offering up all of him and whatever Castiel could use for his perusal, for him to spank and mark up however he pleases.

“Dean,” Castiel moans, apparently satisfied with the view and the offer, and he thrusts his still trapped erection up against Dean’s belly and pubic bone, making him moan even more.

“Please,” Dean begs, pushing his hand against the hand that follows with a hard blow.

“Fifteen!”

“You’re so strong and gorgeous, Dean,” Castiel groans out, and strikes him again.

“Sixteen!”

“I wanted to give you all of this and more the first time I laid eyes on you. And ah, you can’t even begin to imagine what I wanted to do the first time I laid _hands_ on you.” Castiel talks and moans as his hits keep coming, as he thoroughly tenders the muscles of Dean’s butt. Those muscles that make it plump and round and perky, no matter how much pudge there might be on top of to really fill out all there is. And Dean feels those muscles contracting, trying to anticipate the blows and where they will fall, even though it’s impossible because Castiel’s rhythm is no rhythm at all, it’s just a flurry of blows and harsh affection.

“Even these days, I can’t look at you, let lone work alongside you, without wanting to put my hands all over you.” Castiel growls out his confession right as Dean gasps, “Seventeen!”

The next strike is almost cruel when it hits, coming down on the tender back of Dean’s upper thighs, where his butt and legs meet in especially sensitive skin.

“Eighteen,” Dean sobs out, and for the first time today, there’s the idea of dodging the blows and the praise, of rolling away or of putting his hands over his ass or his ears to shield them from the lack of mercy that Castiel shows him. But Dean knows he won’t, doesn’t even let the idea take root in his mind. Instead, he makes sure to dig his fingers even deeper into Castiel’s shirt and the sofa cushion, both to keep his hands occupied and to keep himself obediently fixed in place.

“Then why don’t you?” Dean whines, half-mad to silence Castiel and to keep him talking, and he earns a slap that is so hard that he can _feel_ how it makes his butt cheeks jiggle and blush. “Nineteen!”

Dean can feel his cock let out a drip of precome at that, and even though he can’t see it, he knows it must fall down onto Castiel’s pants, sullying them up with his essence.

“Because there’s more than this that you deserve. More than a risky office affair or the wrong one to put their hands on. No, you deserve so much more.”

And for a moment there, Dean is inclined to believe him. Him, the bringer of pain and pleasure, the one whose final act of judgment is searing his skin, has him almost rut against him, has him almost break and spill.

“Twenty, _ah!”  
_

“So much more, Dean,” Castiel whispers, sounding strangled, and then he cups Dean’s flaming butt cheeks with both his hands and presses a soft kiss to the back of Dean’s trembling neck.

Dean can hear heavy panting and small whines and can see everything around him shifting and turning, and he thinks it might only be him whose world is rocking, up and down and yet never so far as to have lost its roots, as much as it might be him who’s panting and whining and hiccuping through his tears. But he’s not sure, is not quite there. Is floating instead.

What he knows, despite the haze, is that those are not unhappy tears, though. That they are far from it. That they are tears born out of pain and pleasure instead, of him giving himself up to the hard blows and caresses of a kind man. Tears of a union built up on exactly that; a preference for pain and sex and endless affection.

“There you go. All done now, my good boy. All done,” Castiel soothes him from far away and from right next to his ear. “You did it. Like I knew you would. Did so well for me, my perfect Dean. So perfect for me, Dean. Absolutely _perfect.”_

And Dean writhes against the cruel hands on his butt and against the kind words in his ear, chokes out an equally as happy as relieved sob, and then whines.


	17. XVII

Castiel doesn’t waste a second. 

Between his last blow and his quiet reassurance, barely any time passes before he is propped up over Dean, who is still lying on his stomach and can see little more of Castiel than his elbows and hands and his face whenever he leans forward to nudge Dean’s chin up to steal some kisses.

“You did so well, Dean,” Castiel sighs, and Dean can feel his lips wandering over the nape of his neck and one hand reaching for him to caress its way down from Dean’s marked-up throat over his heaving sides and to his stinging and probably bright red butt. There, it traces the top of his cheeks and Dean’s crevice first, a tease and a tell, before those fingers dance over the abused skin of his ass, causing Dean to writhe weakly and moan just as pathetically, in a wordless plea for Castiel to stop.

Castiel shushes him and thankfully takes his hand away again.

“So well,” Castiel repeats, nosing at Dean’s damp hair and his neck, always with little kisses trailing behind. “You have fully earned your reward.”

“Yeah?” Dean breathes out heavily at that and wiggles upwards, even though Castiel is too far from him to reach. He wants Castiel to touch him even more, wants him all pressed up against his back and ass and every last toe, no matter how much it would burn right now. He might moan in pain and cry out if Castiel did, but he would still want it. Would still find pleasure and solace in the weight of Castiel’s body.

“Yes,” Castiel confirms with a kiss. “You were absolutely perfect for me, beyond beautiful. You took all of my blows, and that while clearly calling out the numbers for me and making the most gorgeous of noises.” 

Castiel’s breath is hot where it hits Dean’s shoulder, and it has Dean turning his head to look at him, and the sight he is treated to has him sucking in some air. Because Castiel is all ruffled and sweaty, his cheeks flushed and forehead shiny, shirt clinging to his skin and his almost unrecognizably dark eyes fixed on Dean, and Dean alone. It’s glorious to know that Dean is the one who put that wild look into Castiel’s eyes -- not for the first time, hopefully not for the last. And by doing nothing more than giving in to what both of them wanted to, by giving himself over into Castiel’s capable hands. 

Castiel smiles at him, heatedly, as he catches Dean spying at him. He leans forward without hesitation and presses his lips sloppily against the side of Dean’s, trying to cover as much of them as he can reach. Dean hums at that, but he doesn’t think he could muster up the energy -- or the will to brace the pain -- in order to turn around on his back to get a better angle going and really get Castiel into kissing, to have him press Dean into the mattress and lick in deep and hot. As much as Dean would want him to.

“You know what that means, don’t you?” Castiel breathes against Dean’s lips. “Do you remember what I promised you before we began?”

And oh, Dean might have forgotten all about it in the haze of his spanking, filed it away as just another irrelevant thing in that moment, as much as any other part of the world was irrelevant, because they weren’t Castiel nor Castiel’s hand nor the harsh sting of blows on his ass. But now that Castiel reminds him, he does recall what is still in store for him -- what he was promised as a  _reward,_  of all things, for being put over the lap of one of the most attractive men he’s ever met and have him spank and praise him thoroughly. 

Not that he still entirely fails to see that, since he did as he was told, the reward has been rightfully earned and is  _his._

“My reward,” Dean mumbles out, hoping that his words will be both loud and clear enough for Castiel to understand because somehow, he can’t muster up the energy to speak up. It might be because his body is hurting and everything inside of him should logically tell him to get away from the one responsible for that, the perpetrator, the one who brought him pain. Whereas what he actually feels is the need to have Castiel even closer, to have his hands on him until the end of time, covering his body and every aching part of him.

What he gets instead might turn out to just as amazing in the end. 

“That’s right, your reward. Because you wanted to show me how much you can take, and you did. Because you were honest with me about your desires when we talked about any of this, which is the only thing that allowed us to be where we are right now. Because you entrusted yourself into my hands and had me enjoy myself due to the pleasure of having such faith put in me and also due to the beautiful picture that you painted.” Dean can hear the wet sound of Castiel licking his lips. “I can assure you that the image of you on my lap, counting out the numbers and looking so gorgeous for me while I am allowed to spank your perfect behind is something I will forever cherish.”

Dean digs his face into the cushion of the sofa, and if he could, he would do the same with his ears. He doesn’t want to hear this if he can’t object to it. Because it’s too much, he doesn’t know whether it’s true or not anymore, if it’s only Castiel being kind instead of honest. All of this is almost enough to break him out of the warm buzz tickling at his fingers and his mind and especially his erection, making him want to object and disobey. He doesn’t, though. The scene isn’t over yet, so he knows that he has to do what Castiel told him to; listen to whatever sweet things he whispers about Dean, and accept them. No talking back, no end unless he safewords out. It might be a harsher kind of torture than Castiel’s strikes were, and yet Dean still can’t help but crave it.

 _“Please,_  sir,” Dean whines, helpless between wanting to listen and believe and wanting to clasp his hands over his ears and lock out all these nice things that Castiel is doing or saying, all in an attempt to make him feel good. And Dean does, genuinely, if only because he knows that whatever Castiel says is not said in order to mock or hurt him, but -- no matter how true or untrue his words are -- they are meant to be kind. Which is why it is not so important in itself whether Dean can believe all or any word he says, but that he knows  _why_ Castiel says them. If he is kind, then it is because he thinks Dean deserves it. And yeah, he wants to believe. Wants to feel about himself the way Castiel talks about him.

But not today and not right now. What he wants now is for Castiel to go on and relieve him from the sweet ache of arousal. After all, not being allowed to grind his cock against Castiel as he spanked him only made him harder and wetter. More _desperate._ The image of what happened before, with Castiel holding onto Dean’s hips and bobbing his head with relish up and down on his cock, is still firmly etched into Dean’s memory. And that of his dick, too.

“Do you want me to take care of you with my mouth now, Dean?”

“Yeah, yes, sir, please,” Dean whimpers because he is strung too tight, doesn’t know when he might snap, and he’s not sure it would be in the good way. His body is hurting and he wants some physical relief and he wants to be able to look into Castiel’s eyes again.

Apparently, Castiel must be picking up on that he shouldn’t tease Dean right now, that it would be cruel to do so any longer. “Do you want to be above me or do you want to stand for this, Dean? I believe having anything in contact with your butt might be an overload of sensations, most of all pain, so I would advise for you not to lie on your back.”

“Don’t know,” Dean replies pathetically. He can barely think beyond Castiel saying he has earned himself his reward. He wants that reward now. He was so still for Castiel just minutes ago, and now that the shock of being hit begins to wear off, his body demands other, more gentle input. To show him that everything is alright, and that he is too, and that being obedient and enduring all that pain will pay off.

His body feels too tight, too small, suddenly. He’s torn between the edge of pain and pleasure, between believing Castiel’s praise just like before or refuting it, between allowing himself to give in to all of these sensations or let his mind rule.

His chest is heaving and Dean can hear in his ears how his breath picks up, sounding like he is running a marathon, although he is doing nothing but lie there, in his Dom’s lap.

He doesn’t know what to do or which way to go, and apparently, Castiel notices.

“What’s your color, Dean?” Castiel asks, his hands on Dean’s skin, as calming as his voice.

“Yellow,” Dean answers, honest before he can think too much on it. Because Yellow is not Red. It’s not telling Castiel off or denying Castiel his pleasure -- it’s just asking him to slow down a bit or take a different approach. Dean is sure that Castiel won’t think him a bad sub for this or that he won’t listen to what he wants to be changed. It’s okay to do this, he tells himself. He  _knows_  that it is okay. Because claiming Yellow during a scene is a whole different matter from throwing out a safeword or a code Red and cutting off the entire fun. If the Dom does cut it off. 

Amazingly and just as hoped for, Castiel doesn’t react badly to his calling of Yellow. He immediately pulls away, or tries to at least, because Dean whines and feels his tremble revive when he does, and Castiel must pick up on it because he stays where he is, not pressed all up against Dean but also not out of reach, still in contact with him.

“Alright, Dean. I will stay here,” Castiel soothes, so close to Dean’s ear. “What is it that you would like me to do now, sweet boy? What’s the matter? You can tell me anything you like. I won’t think less of you and I will do exactly as you say.”

“I wanna see your face,” Dean breathes out. “When you-- when you blow me. And I want you to kiss me. Kiss me now, please.”

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel agrees right away, no trace of being angry or annoyed with Dean to be found. No calling him out on his insolence of telling him what to do, either.

Instead, Castiel stays true to his word as does as he was told to. He tenderly slips his one hand and arm under Dean’s chest and uses the other to scoop up his face. And just like this, he draws him close enough to cradle Dean’s back against his body, keeping Dean in a half-tilted position on the side. Neither his butt nor his crotch make contact with the sofa, but he is still stable.

It’s easy like this for Castiel to put kisses to the side of Dean’s face, all while his arms are strong and soothing around him. Yet, Castiel doesn’t waste too much time on kissing a warm line up and down Dean’s cheek. Rather, he kisses him for a few moments, unhurried presses of lips against a cheek and temple that are still somewhat sullied by tear tracks, and strokes affectionately over that part of Dean’s chest that he holds him by, passing over his peaked buds and heaving chest. 

Dean concentrates on nothing but the physical sensations. He tries to empty his mind of the anxiety and growing panic. Instead, he returns and listens to the kisses he receives, focuses on how nice Castiel’s fingers feel against his nipples, breathes in tandem with Castiel, deep and slow. It’s enough for his body and mind to relax in Castiel’s hold, for him to enjoy where he is and what he is doing again.

All until he sighs and nods, trembling gone now, to silently signal Castiel that he is now somewhat calmer -- or getting a grip of himself at least -- and that Castiel may move on now.

Castiel doesn’t, though. Not right away, that is. He lets his lips wander up to Dean’s ear where they caress the soft shell of it in easy brushes and tiny pecks. “Your color?”

“Green,” Dean reassures him, and he means it.

“Good,” Castiel says. “Will you tell me if you start to feel worse again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What a wonderful boy,” Castiel praises him and rewards him with a kiss. “Then I want us to try the following: I want you to remain with your upper body on the couch, whereas I will squat by the edge of it, on the floor. I will support your lower body with my own, by having you put your legs on top of my thighs and around my waist. Your behind will neither touch the sofa nor my thighs, but will remain supported between the two of them. This way, you will be able to see my face,” he plants a little kiss to the sensitive skin behind Dean’s ear, “and I will be able to see yours while I pleasure you with my mouth.”

“Not sure if I can,” Dean slurs out.

“I will support as much of your weight as possible. You won’t have to do anything but lie back and let me carry your lower body on my legs. If we see that this position doesn’t work for us after all, we can still choose another one. Such as having you lie on your side and having my head between your legs.”

Weirdly enough, this simple turn of phrase is what feels even filthier than Castiel suggesting that he essentially wants to balance Dean while squatting and going down on him. It also has Dean’s cock twitch and stiffen up again, after it has been wilted into nothing but a mere chubby under Dean’s nerves and the lack of attention.

“Okay.”

“Hold onto me as much as you can,” Castiel says and lets his hand wander lower, from Dean’s chest towards his waist, where he grabs him. “I have to turn you around in order to have us chest-to-chest, which will allow us to take on the position I just suggested.”

It is rather useful that Castiel explains this before he acts because like this, Dean has all the time in the world to consider what Castiel just said and to nod. Only then does Castiel heave him up into his arms, which would surely have given Dean a heart attack had he not been forewarned. It still makes him yelp, because it’s not every day that he has Castiel Novak wrapping his arms around him, giving him one last little kiss to his neck and practically dragging him with him. Backwards from Castiel’s point of view, forwards from Dean’s, stumbling over the edge of the sofa and onto the ground, which the soles of Castiel’s feet hit first, followed by his butt probably and by the soles of Dean’s feet, too, what with the way they immediately dangle down from where they were pressed around Castiel’s hips in shock.

Dean’s upper body rests, just as promised, still halfway on the sofa, with Dean holding on for dear life with one hand on the couch and the other on Castiel’s biceps, digging equally into both. Yet, he is not wavering in his position or feeling scared of dropping because Castiel is right there with him, his focus unbroken on holding Dean up and steady and keeping himself stretched above him at first, on not letting go until they can balance each other out first.

It’s a sweet moment of respite, one that allows Dean to just take some deep breaths, inhaling the scent of Castiel and feeling the warmth that seeps through his shirt and into Dean’s bare skin. And as Dean is filled with nothing but warmth and calmness, the frenzied need to come abating at last and being replaced by an arousal that is less desperate and yet anticipatory in the best of ways, Dean can’t help but press a light kiss of his own to where Castiel’s shoulder and chest transition. 

Castiel chuckles at that, puts a kiss to his forehead and asks, “Alright?”

Dean nods against Castiel’s skin as he sneaks in another kiss. If it was up to him, he would want to taste Castiel forever. Maybe this is a thing that he should ask Castiel for -- asking him to be allowed to kiss him for as long as he wants to and to go down on his knees for him. Not now, though. Now, it’s Castiel’s turn to do so.

“Alright,” Dean reassures.

“Good,” Castiel says and slowly breaks away from Dean, unwinding his arms enough to not have them wrapped around his shoulders anymore, but to have them firmly on his hips, providing more than enough stability for Dean not to slip. Castiel then sits back enough to have his feet touch his butt and for his shins to be pressed all against the floor, taking a position that won’t let him waver. He pulls Dean a bit closer to himself and encourages him with guiding hands to put his legs around his hips and waist, to properly straddle him, which Dean does with a pleased sigh.

Castiel smiles at the sound and at Dean, almost lazily happy. This leisure carries over into the rest of his actions, because when he tightens his grip around Dean’s hips and when he presses a kiss to the center of Dean’s chest first, then to his right nipple and then the left, it’s with a lack of hurry, an absence of desperation. It’s a confidence from which tranquility stems, and this very tranquility transfers to Dean, a submissive trusting the sure hands and secure signs of his Dominant, and it has him immersing himself fearlessly into all of this, into this act of gratification and worship.

Castiel’s hands and lips and the flutter of his lashes on his skin feel nothing but good. The way Castiel’s kisses wander downward, not in a tease but a build-up, has Dean sighing and panting, particularly so when Castiel nudges against Dean’s cock with his nose, smiling at his own action, and plants his kisses there. Not just as a continuation of the kisses to Dean’s chest and tummy from a few moments ago, but as a conclusion of what Castiel had done before he fully undressed Dean and took his hand to his ass. It’s the keeping of a promise, one that Castiel didn’t need to make, yet still did. Still fulfills.

“Oh,” slips over Dean’s lips as Castiel takes the head of his now once again fully erect cock between his lips and hums around it. He keeps it there for a bit, alternating between sucking and just letting it rest where everything is warm and wet and willingly open for Dean. And when he pulls off, to a sad sound from Dean, it’s only to lick broad stripes up from the root to the slit, and from the slit down the upper side of his erection until Castiel reaches the trimmed hair over Dean’s pubic bone. Easily, he gets all of Dean’s dick wet, slick and mixing the saliva with a drop of precome or two. And only once all of Dean’s cock is shiny and aching does he open his mouth for him again, wide and without shame, swallowing him down to the root in one go, letting the head nudge into his throat as if it were  _nothing._

 _“Ah!”_ Dean corrects his former assessment, twitching and panting all the more, because  _oh,_ does this feel nice. He has been blown before in his life, of course, but the gusto with which Castiel applies himself to the task and the sudden tightness of his throat come as a shock.

It’s a good thing that Castiel’s hand are so steady on him, holding his hips and the rest of his body in place. Because without a doubt, Dean would otherwise be tempted to squirm and writhe and thrust his hips up towards where it’s so warm and tight for him, where his Dominant takes care of him with glazed and attentive blue eyes.

And Dean swears there’s a smile playing around the stretched corners of Castiel’s mouth as he hums again, the sound vibrating around his cock manifold, making Dean gasp and whimper and drip into Castiel’s mouth, right down his throat. The  _idea_  of which is enough to drive him even wilder, to heighten his pleasure and loosen his senses even more. 

Castiel must be able to pick up on it because he goes right along with it, bobbing his head up and down on Dean’s cock, making noises that sound so wet and delightful and as if there was nothing more delicious in the world. Nothing else that he could possibly want to taste and swallow down as deeply as Dean’s erection, as if he was feeding Dean’s cock to himself,  _gorging_  himself on it, like a starved man. 

Dean wants to give him what he wants, even more of his taste, of whatever his Dom could possibly want to taste and touch and feel of him. 

So Dean cries out, fighting against the urge to buck his hips and take something he has not being given the permission to take, and he searches for Castiel’s dark eyes that have never even left his and that Dean’s have physically never left as well. And the expression on his face must be as honest and as lust-filled as he feels, because even before he opens his mouth to whine out a small “Please, sir”, Castiel’s lips tighten around his cock and he takes him down his throat again, lets Dean enjoys the unbearable tightness of it, never once breaking eye contact, never losing himself as desperately as Dean does.

Despite his desperation, though, Dean can feel when Castiel suddenly nods, the movement of which has the head of his cock slipping out of Castiel’s throat for a moment and then right back in again as Castiel digs his fingers into the supple skin of Dean’s hips and swallows him down to the root with a deep growl that has Dean trembling. It’s a possessive sound that is just further permission, an appeal for his boy to spill himself just like he is now allowed to, a sign of how even though Castiel is the one with a dick down his throat,  _he_  is still the one who’s in control,  _he_  is still the one who Dean has to listen to and obey.

So Dean obeys, with a litany of harsh breaths and soft and hasty cries of “Oh”s, “Ah”s, “Sir”s and one unsolicited little  _“Cas”,_  followed by a broken  _“Please”,_  followed by a wordless scream, followed by Dean  _filling up_ Castiel, filling up his mouth and throat and whatever space in him he reserved for Dean, as if it were Dean’s space and his place, as if in reality, Dean wasn’t the one getting filled.

And Dean might be shaking and shuddering and breaking apart of the seams, but that’s not all there is, not all he feels. There is still Castiel, swallowing his come and moaning around his cock as if doing so was a real treat, and it only keeps Dean going and reminds him of how there is more to this. Not just  _his_  pleasure, but also Castiel’s. Also Castiel’s cock grazing his thighs and balls through the fabric every now and then, a reminder of his unfulfilled longing. And Castiel’s lips and the corners of his mouth, slick with Dean’s come.

The sight is almost too much. Dean is not the one in any position to put a claim on Castiel, and yet, he has done so. Yes, Castiel has already willingly given himself over to Dean -- has made sure both of them were on the same page when it came to being exclusive -- but there were no ties and no bruises, barely any naked skin to show for it. It has been merely more than a verbal assurance from Castiel. And now, there it is, the unmistakable sign of Castiel’s mouth covered in Dean’s come, and Dean’s skin littered with Castiel’s bruises in return.

It makes Dean dizzy, has possessiveness surge up in him. “Cas,  _sir,”_  he breathes out and puts his hands on Castiel’s cock at first, then against his shoulders, pressing against them, asking for something his mind is too tired to put into words.

“Dean?” Castiel inquires, already going with the motion.

“Sir,” acknowledges sluggishly, pressing against his shoulders with even more insistence. 

Castiel gives in and lets Dean guide his shoulders and back down until they are lying flat against the plush carpet in front of the sofa, pliant despite the confusion written all over his face. 

Yet, he seems to finally understand what Dean wants when Dean fumbles with his shirt and his pants, trying to rid him off of them. Castiel helps him undress him, despite the awkward angles both of them must take to get Castiel’s clothes off without shoving Dean off. It’s worth it for the sight of the bare and sweat-slick skin beneath Dean, for the obvious sign of Castiel’s arousal curved up and hard against his belly.

It’s enough to make Dean’s mouth water, all of him still abuzz with his own relief and a growing anticipation, and he follows Castiel down, presses his chest against Castiel’s, their nipples rubbing up against each other, and whimpers out a soft, “Please, use me.”

And he knows that Castiel wants to protest his choice of words and utter his confusion, but he groans and understands as Dean presses one of his thighs between his legs, rubs it up against Castiel’s crotch and pleads once more,  _“Sir, please.”_

And Castiel heeds his plea, gives Dean what he’s asking for by sinking one of his hands into his hair and pulling him tightly against his neck while the other grabs onto Dean’s thigh, just shy of his aching ass, and rocks up against it.

“Dean,” Castiel moans, his face equally as buried in Dean’s neck, his lips just randomly grazing Dean’s marked-up throat. He sighs as he grinds up, his cock hard and wet, and Dean just enjoys it for what it is. Castiel taking pleasure from his body, just like he wanted him to. Something delicate that adds to Dean’s own warm haze, makes him feel happy and maybe a bit sleepy, what with the steady rocking motion against his body lulling him even deeper into that sweet come-down. 

This is not arousing per se, but it is _intimate._ Castiel’s hand in his hair and the other clutching one of Dean’s thighs, holding it down as he grinds against it, feels right and good. Dean asked Castiel to use him, but not in order for him to  _abuse_ him, but for Dean to feel  _useful._  Which he does, overwhelmingly so. Useful and calm.

Dean would want to offer to help or for Castiel to make use of any other part of his body to seek his relief, so that he can give back even more of how good he has made Dean feel. But Castiel surely seems to be enjoying himself more than enough, if his heavy panting and little sighs of Dean’s name right against Dean’s neck and cheeks, where he doesn’t stop showering him in kisses, are anything to go by. 

His cock is also hard and slippery as it thrusts against Dean’s thigh, and it becomes even more slippery when Castiel tightens his grip on Dean’s scalp and thigh to keep him fixed in place as he ruts up against in more fervor and in a series of increasingly desperate, panting strokes. One of his moans breaks on a grunt and he presses his mouth and all of his face tightly into the crook of Dean’s neck as he spills himself on him, Dean’s name choked out and breathless, sullying Dean’s skin in the most delicious of ways.

It’s only after Castiel seems to have truly ridden out his orgasm that his hold on Dean eases, although he still keeps his hands where they are, letting them caress his hair and thigh softly, soothingly.

“I apologize,” Castiel sighs against Dean’s temple and presses a kiss to it. “It seems I might have gotten a bit carried away.”

“Mmh, it seems you were not the only one,” Dean all but purrs as he enjoys the lazy kisses to his skin and the way Castiel caresses his thigh, right where he has kept him in place mere moments before.

“While that might be true, I am not certain to what extent you were able to be aware of what was happening and to consent to--”

“Castiel,” Dean cuts in, not sharp, but with a fond trace of exasperation. “I initiated and was completely on board with what was happening. Believe me, I would’ve been on board with many other things as well.”

“Just because you initiated it doesn’t mean I am necessarily still allowed to touch you.”

Dean half-groans, half-sighs, because if he jumps Castiel’s bones and is a bit too dazed to help him come by the end, it doesn’t mean he suddenly doesn’t want it anymore. “Yes, it does.” Castiel makes a noise as if he wants to object, so Dean just pushes on. “You always are.”

“You know that this is not an offer I can just accept,” Castiel says, in-between kisses that might make his statement sound a bit ambivalent. And Dean is sure he has made this offer before, and that it was declined all the same.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean replies. And just as he honestly means this offer -- because he trusts Castiel to see where to draw the line by himself --, he is also glad that Castiel won’t just allow it. That he will always ask.

“Oh, Dean,” Castiel sighs and puts a kiss to Dean’s forehead, so tenderly that Dean knows he isn’t pissed or anything that Dean so easily gives him blanket permission. “How are you feeling?” Castiel asks, changing the topic while fingers skirt cautiously at the top of Dean’s thigh, going no further. “Are you hurting very much?”

And huh, Dean had almost forgotten about the state his ass must be in. But with calling attention to it, the awareness also returns, although still probably not as much as it will once the rush of his orgasm and of the comfort of being held begins to wane. Still, now that he thinks about it, it  _does_ hurt _._  It’s stinging and hot and Dean considers it a good thing that Castiel’s fingers do nothing but dance at the edges of his butt cheeks because Dean isn’t sure he could handle them being touched right now.

“It’s fine,” Dean lies, for which he garners an unimpressed and raised eyebrow from Castiel. He is quick to reiterate, “It does sting, though. Will probably get a bit worse once all those nice feelings wear off and my body calms down again and, y’know.”

“Yes, I know.” Castiel skims even more tenderly over Dean’s thigh, in what seems like a means to distract Dean from his hurting ass. “A few days ago, I bought aloe vera lotion that we can apply. It is supposed to soothe your skin. Though it is likely that sitting over the weekend will come as a bit of a bother.”

“‘A few days ago’? For this?”

“Yes,” Castiel admits, and his cheeks seem rosy but his smile not shy. “I had hoped that we might find some time to explore spanking together, so I bought the lotion.”

“When would you even have had time for this? I know your schedule; I know your days were packed.”

“I, ah,” Castiel clears his throat, and now there might be a bit embarrassment but still no shame, “during my business trip, my mind kept wandering to a possible scene like this. So, when I was waiting at the airport and buying something to eat at the duty free shop, I saw the aloe vera lotion and thought that, whether we would find time for this or not, it would be better to have this at home. Just in case.”

Dean smiles, almost smirks in fact, because he can’t help but feel exhilarated by this piece of information. Apparently, those claims of Castiel about how he thought about doing this or that to Dean aren’t just claims but actual things that happen. He actually _fantasizes_  about Dean when he isn’t by his side, and not only that, he also thinks his fantasies through enough for him to come to the conclusion that acting them out will come with consequences that he needs to prepare for, like an aching butt. It’s unexpectedly... sweet. That Castiel seems to jerk off to fantasies starring him and that even then, he doesn’t let go of his Dom persona -- or more like, Dom nature. He still cares.

“I see,” Dean says, a blush of his own creeping up into his cheeks, and if he couldn’t feel how limp and useless his dick is still lying against Castiel’s hip bones, he would almost expect it to react to this newfound knowledge. “Better safe than sorry, huh?”

“Exactly,” Castiel easily agrees, and he presses a kiss between Dean’s eyebrows and then down the bridge of his nose, until he reaches the tip of it, which he graces with a little peck and a smile. His blue eyes look lighter now again, shining almost, and the little crow’s feet by their side as his smile grows the longer he looks at Dean only seem to lighten up his face even more.

Dean smiles back, flushed and happy, and Castiel laughs at it, equally as happy.

“It is also the least I can offer after you were so incredible for me,” Castiel whispers.

Dean snorts self-deprecatingly, but oddly enough, not self-loathingly. “What are you even talking about? I constantly messed up.”

Castiel furrows his brows and tilts his head as much as his position allows him to, as if to ask Dean in return ‘What are  _you_  even talking about?’ He doesn’t say it out loud, but Dean understands it well enough.

“C’mon,” Dean appeals, “I rubbed up against you even though never gave me permission to, I Yellowed for no reason at all when I lost my cool there in the middle, I, uhm, overdid it when you were blowing me for that first time, I demanded stuff like being allowed to see your face and that you kiss me and all that. I was pretty sub-par at best.” Dean knows all of these things to be true, knows them to be  _facts,_  but as factual as they are, they echo only hollowly inside him, as if he believes that he should feel terrible and ashamed about them, but only feels bad and embarrassed. These assessments don’t reach him quite as deeply as they used to, and it’s weird, how they seem to have slowed down, slicked up with sweet and dripping honey and even sweeter words.

“Dean,” Castiel sighs and rubs the side of his face against the side of Dean’s, almost like a cat and for no apparent reason. And Dean wants to see his sigh as not one of exasperation and of being tired of Dean’s shit, but he is not sure there is any other explanation for it. The little kisses Castiel puts onto the places where he has just rubbed himself against make him wonder.

“It is part of the play and certainly of human arousal that you couldn’t help but try to find relief against my leg. I believe you will come to see the same by this evening or as soon as we have put some space between this scene and us. The same is true for when I pleasured you with my mouth -- I expect and enjoy your loss of control. In fact, it is something I strive for whenever I am with you. It is undeniably arousing for me as well and I always look back at those moments with particular fondness. Especially when I am alone at night.” He rubs his nose against Dean’s temple and lets out a hot breath that leaves no question about what he likes to do whenever he ponders these moments. “I know you know that. That this is a part of a regular scene. You might still be too caught up in subspace to see this clearly, but I know you will soon come to the conclusion that what you did is nothing to be ashamed of or that would constitute you as a ‘sub-par sub’.”

Dean breathes out heavily and closes his eyes for a bit, letting the words and kisses wash over him and sink inside.

“You might be right,” Dean concedes when he blinks his eyes open again, only to find a pleased-looking Castiel nodding at his words.

“Good. And the same is true for yellow-lighting me. We have this system for a reason and it is a powerful tool of communication. If either of us decides that we are uncomfortable with what is happening, we should make use of this system. That is what it’s there for.” Castiel considers while he draws little circles right under the flaming skin of Dean’s butt, gently. “In fact, I am proud of you for telling me what you wanted. Whether it was that you wanted us to slow down or that you wanted to kiss me or see my face. The importance of your voice and preferences don’t end with the beginning of a scene. What you want matters any time.” It feels so nice to hear that and have Castiel caress him. It feels honest. “Besides, it humbles me that you trusted me enough to be forward about your needs. As do your needs themselves humble me. Because I too immensely enjoy kissing you, Dean.”

And with those words being spoken low and intimate, their lips find each other again, warm and leisurely, more a slow re-exploration than anything else. Dean closes his eyes and just forgets about those doubts he voiced himself, thinks of nothing but the dry press of lips and the tease of a tongue that won’t follow through.

When they break apart again, it’s not without their lips brushing against each other endlessly and not without them enjoying the caress of warm, slightly heavier breath.

“You were excellent today, Dean. Incredible, as I said. You took my spanking so wonderfully that I couldn’t help but worship you with my mouth. I knew you would be beautiful when we did this, but I couldn’t have known just  _how much.”_  His breath shudders against Dean’s mouth and cheek and Dean presses his eyes closed for just a second. “If you enjoyed it as much as you seemed to, I would adore being granted the honor of doing this again eventually. I wish to touch and see you like this again. If you do not wish the same, then I can assure you that even the mere memory of this will be enough to last me a lifetime.”

And yeah, Cas is laying it on thick again, almost ridiculously so, and Dean wants to laugh and crack a joke about how impossible Castiel’s words are and whatever else will come to mind just to refute what he said. But what Dean does instead is to blush heavily and to mumble out, “Let’s just say, we can definitely keep my Yes on the list.”

And, accompanied by the uncoordinated attempt of a kiss, Castiel just laughs into Dean’s shoulder.

Dean grins to himself, confidence bolstered by Castiel and his laughter and his everything, so he teases, “But only if you finally give me that aloe lotion you bought for me.”

Castiel snorts and presses his nose and mouth against Dean’s warm, marked-up throat and promises, “Gladly.”


	18. XVIII

Castiel’s fingers are tentative as he applies the lotion to a half-dozing Dean’s skin, nothing but dollops of aloe vera here and there, spread all over his butt with nothing but the ridge of Castiel’s thumb. No palms or prodding fingers, just the barest of touches, a hint of physical contact.

Dean sighs deeply as his flaming skin slowly starts to cool. The lotion takes away the sting and the need to roughly press his hands against his butt to scratch or fight against the pain in any way, while at the same time, he had rather not let anything touch it at all. But it’s okay like this, with Castiel taking the greatest care, working his magic and humming lowly as he does, no song and no rhythm but a pleasant sound nonetheless.

It lulls Dean even deeper into his dozing state and he suspects to have completely nodded off for some time because the next thing he’s aware of is Castiel suddenly lying beneath him, taking a nap of his own while cradling Dean to his chest and keeping a sheet around Dean’s shoulders and covering both of them with it. Castiel is, incidentally, also still just as naked as Dean.

As Dean shuffles at the realization of how they are lying, bare skin against bare skin and safe in their embrace, their crotches pressed softly and with no further intention against one another, Castiel sleepily blinks his eyes open. He seems just as confused as Dean for a moment there, but as soon as he moves his hand and probably feels Dean’s naked skin beneath his palm, a slow smile grows all over his haze. And then, he starts to look a little sheepish.

“I apologize. You feel asleep and started trembling and I wanted to make sure that you don’t become sick or that your body goes into shock after what we did. I turned up the heater, fetched a sheet and put it over you, but you kept shaking. It is probably too thin, yet a blanket might have been too rough on your skin. So I considered that the warmth of another human body might help you stave off the cold, and you did stop trembling.” He pauses for long enough to suck in a small breath. He probably realizes he has been babbling. “I hope the sheet is not too much for your skin and I am sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, Dean. I promise I didn’t touch you in any inappropriate way while you were asleep.”

Dean clenches his eyes shut for a moment and feels like pinching his nose, although he prefers to keep his hands resting on Castiel’s softly raising and lowering chest instead. He sighs. For some reason, Castiel’s words make him feel distant. He likes what Castiel did, that he has started to hold him and taken care of him, and Dean wishes Castiel finally accepted that he trusts him. That he wouldn’t have allowed Castiel any of the things he has already done otherwise. That it’s a sign of faith. “The sheet is just fine. I can barely feel it on my ass. And I believe you. I know you wouldn’t do anything ‘inappropriate’ unless I told you to – even if I already told you to.”

Castiel harrumphes. “You are not about to tell me that I am always free to touch you again, are you?”

“Of course not,” Dean says, internally rolling his eyes. Because he would say that, if he didn’t already know that it would be for nothing. Although it is what he meant to imply. “I would never.”

“Dean, you know why I won’t.”

“Yeah, I do,” Dean huffs out. And as soon as he does, even he realizes how childish he is being. Because Castiel has told him time and time again that he thinks about touching Dean a lot, that he has even had filthy fantasies about him, so it would be ridiculous to still cling to the idea that Castiel wouldn’t just touch him whenever because he dislikes touching Dean or that it is an attempt to put distance between the two of them. A rejection. Because Dean knows enough by now that it is really because of consensual issues – and that it’s a good thing how Castiel handles this. 

“I do,” Dean repeats, softer this time. Even then, he can’t help but wish for a day that they know where each other’s limits are – a day where their interactions are as natural as breathing that words might become obsolete.

Castiel just smiles at him, all warm eyes and happy pink lips. “That’s good. Regardless of how touching you is always on my mind, time and place and our states of being don’t always allow for it.”

Dean licks his lips in embarrassment and tries to ignore the heat seeping into his cheeks. “You sure know how to sweet-talk a guy. Never before heard anything about ‘always’ touching me being something you think of.”

Castiel tilts his head to the side and regards him with a calm gaze and the hint of a smile. Somewhere beneath the blanket, fluttering up and down Dean’s sides, are Castiel’s hands. “Oh? I’m certain I have mentioned this before.”

“But not the ‘always’ part.”

“That is possible. If I have never mentioned it before, it probably would have been because I didn’t wish to make you feel uncomfortable.” Castiel noses along the line of Dean’s jaw, but doesn’t do much more than that, and he makes sure to keep eye contact with Dean. “Because I do think about touching you at all times. Even the inappropriate times – no, especially the inappropriate times.” He presses a tiny kiss to the bolt of Dean’s jaw and sighs sweetly.

Dean shuffles a bit where he lies on him, bracing himself just enough on Castiel’s chest that he can easily hold his gaze. Impossibly, Dean can already feel his dick try to stiffen up again. Only sluggishly so and only enough to thicken it a bit and make it feel hotter; it will probably lead nowhere. Yet, the warm arousal is still nice, especially so when Dean finds an answering chubby from below him. Castiel seems undeterred but makes a pleased sound when their dicks lazily slot against each other.

“Yeah?” Dean tries to tease, but it comes out less sexy than dmbly smiley. “Like when? When you are in meetings with that douche Adler? Or when you have to meet up with your brothers that also work at Sandover? Or when you feel a bit hot and bothered and–” He bites his lip, to keep quiet and to stave off the embarrassment and words alike. This is not his forte, trying to dirty talk or whatever, and even though he tries to become more comfortable with it and more skilled at it, he already feels out of his depth.

Castiel, though, doesn’t comment on how Dean cut himself off or coaxes him to go on. Instead, he makes a considering humming sound and speaks low and intimate words of his own.

“I believe I already told you about those times about when I am in bed or in the shower by myself. Any time that I touch myself. These are when you are on my mind, of course, but also at times like the ones you just mentioned, like whenever I am in any uncomfortable situation that I have to deal with alone. Especially whenever I have to meet with Adler. When I have to talk to him or partake in any of his meetings, I like to imagine you also being there and to think about what you would have to say about him.” He grins a little grin and Dean can see a hint of his gums. “But I also think about you whenever I am in the office or at home any you’re not there. When I am on my way home, knowing that you are still in the office by yourself, working so hard for me. Or whenever something good happens. It’s then that I always find myself wishing to share it with you. To have you smile along with me, and to touch that smile and you, to feel you feel good, just like I can whenever we scene.” 

Castiel nods to himself. And Dean, Dean can hear his heat beat a rushed rhythm against his ribcage, all of him strung tight and dizzy. This can’t be hat he thinks it is, can it?

“I relish in the knowledge of being able to do this for you. And I have wanted to do similar things in other instances as well, and wish to do so for so often. Like that one time I was out in the woods and heard a little chirping sound that I mistook for birds at first, which then turned out to be–”

“–kittens, yes, I know,” Dean hastily intervenes, fighting against that hot swell in his chest and what feels like panic but might also be something else that gets his pulse racing. “You, uh, you actually sent me a short video of the kittens. I think that was when you were on a business trip a few weeks ago, and you probably were drunk or anything, but, uhm. I got your video.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, sounding maybe a touch embarrassed, but pleased nonetheless. “Then I’m glad.”

“Yeah. And it was really adorable, yeah, with the mother of the kittens coming to pick them up and put them into their little mold and then licking over their heads and cleaning them and–” Dean babbles helplessly, trying to stay on the topic of the video just so that Castiel won’t resume talking so sweetly about him, saying things that sound like a craving that isn’t even sexual in nature, and Dean can’t have that because he feels something like that, too. But it must be different from what Castiel describes and from what he wants, because Castiel having Dean on his mind all the time and wanting to share happy things with him can’t be the same as Dean having Castiel on his mind all the time and wanting to share everything with him. The good, the bad and the ugly. That is, his life.

“Dean,” Castiel soothes, putting a kiss to the cleft of Dean’s chin. “I agree that this was very adorable, which is why I watched them for a long time and came back every day after that. But what I meant to tell you is that I speak the truth when I say that you are constantly on my mind, and that you are excellent company and a wonderful person. I do not wish to make you feel uncomfortable, but–”

_“Cas,”_ Dean cuts in, sharper than he wants to, and hides his face at the juncture of Castiel’s neck and shoulders. His breathing is heavy, for some reason, and he closes his eyes. “Please. Don’t.”

Dean doesn’t even know what it is exactly that he has expected to hear, what it is that he’s so afraid of. He just knows that what Castiel has been saying was a bit too much and yet leaves him feeling that is wasn’t enough, maybe not as much as he believes himself to feel. Of course, he is aware that whatever Castiel would have wanted to say just now would have been something kind, nothing unkind at least, and that Dean would have liked as much as dreaded it. He yearns and fears to hear it at the same time. Doesn’t know if Castiel will over- or underwhelm him with it – in either case, it would be too sudden to hear. Dean still feels too raw from the scene, physically or emotionally, to listen to anything too overpowering right now. Deep down, he _must_ be aware of what Castiel has wanted to say. But he doesn’t know. And it would be too much. Not right now.

“I apologize,” Castiel sighs, and Dean can hear his resignation. He still doesn’t shove Dean off or runs harsh hands over Dean’s butt to punish him for his insolence. Instead, he presses his lips to Dean’s throat, to where the marks are, and asks quietly, “Is this still alright?”

“Yeah,” Dean feels, and he feels like crying because he’s feeling so dejected by his own behaviour and for Castiel. He’s just been bad and rude and dismissive and he should be tossed aside or punished for that. Not have the man he just snubbed kiss his throat all gently, as if Dean was the one in need of comfort.

“Good,” Castiel breathes against his skin, and when he resumes his kissing, Dean can feel him smile despite it all. Can feel him nudge their completely flaccid dicks against each other.

“Hey, you know I,” Dean awkwardly begins, and it surely doesn’t make Castiel ‘know’ anything at all, although it does catch his attention. “I’m just feeling a bit, y’know, fucked right now. I just– not now, alright? Not now, but. But not never. Okay?” It’s all he can stammer out, dumbly and in a lack of skills for how to communicate things like these. But he still needs to say something, at the very least. he doesn’t just want to leave Castiel cut off and rejected, dismissing whatever it was that he wanted to say before Dean even gave him the chance to say it. He owes him as much at least.

“Okay,” Castiel agrees with a soft smile and a benign kiss to Dean’s forehead. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. I am sorry for springing this on you. I am sure you must be very exhausted after you have been so wonderful for me, and you must still be hurting. We can talk about this sometime else – whenever you want to. Should you want to.”

“Yeah, alright. I’m just– sorry, I–”

“There is nothing for you to be sorry for.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“But I do,” Castiel says, returning to his teasing tone from before, making Dean smile slightly. “I mean it when I say that being allowed to be around you, what is more, touch you, is already the greatest honour. Being allowed to share your company makes me very happy.” He puts one soft, chaste kiss to Dean’s lips, more a peck than anything else. In barely more than the way that you do when you greet someone or see them off. “Now, is there anything you could want me to do for you? Maybe anything I could bring you?”

“Castiel, could you–” Dean awkwardly tugs at the hem of the sheet and at Castiel’s shoulder. “I mean, just for a little bit, I would want to– uhm, kiss some more. Like this,” he says and leans downward, clumsily pressing his lips to Castiel’s jaw and then his cheek and wandering slowly and one kiss at a time towards his lips. Castiel remains still yet not rigid beneath him. Dean tries to keep his confidence and seals his lips over Castiel’s, moving them almost childishly chastely, and shudders out a breath as Castiel begins to move in tandem with him, indulges him.

And miraculously enough, Castiel truly doesn’t seem to begrudge Dean’s words from before; he doesn’t try to shorten their kisses or to pull away whenever even the faintest of chances arises. Instead, he seems perfectly happy to catch all of Dean’s kisses and give them back threefold, to open his mouth and run his wet and parted lips over Dean’s bottom lip, but for him to never turn this into something else, nothing more sexual than Dean does. 

And maybe, Dean can taste apologies in those kisses, too. Not from him, but from Castiel. Little pleas for forgiveness of his own, for how he rushed Dean. 

There’s reassurance in all this, of both the emotional and the sensual kind, and Dean is glad that Castiel doesn’t just passively take his kisses and his burden of confused affection. It feels as though there is forgiveness and acceptance and adoration in each and every kiss, mutually from both of them, and it dissipates Dean’s anxiety, his anticipation for hurt and his fear of an end to them.

Dean can feel Castiel’s dick twitching against Dean’s, even though there’s no wandering hands and no rutting, just those simple little kisses that end in sighs and easy breaths. Dean adores the sensation of Castiel chubbing up from just this, that he needs nothing more, seemingly not even a quick retreat into more steamy fantasies, for him to react to Dean.

At the same time, Castiel doesn’t act on it and all but ignores his plump dick in favour of channeling all of his concentration and tenderness into their kissing, into making Dean forget all about before. Like this, it feels like he let Castiel finish what he meant to finish and that what he said was exactly what Dean wanted to hear and felt as well. This doesn’t feel like revenge or consolation kissing – just kissing, between the two of them. It’s so easy, so lacking in bitterness and subliminal aggression that Dean can barely believe that this is real and that he gets to have this. That maybe Castiel’s words were true and spoken with a sense of satisfaction. That Castiel might indeed consider Dean’s company alone an _honour._

Castiel swallows all of Dean’s pleased little sighs, those small sounds he can’t keep inside, and cups his face. Despite the stubble that Dean is sure he must feel – Dean didn’t, after all, expect to spend his weekend at Castiel’s instead of the office or maybe his own apartment –, Castiel doesn’t pull away, but instead strokes his hand up and down Dean’s cheek. It seems to be even easier or maybe more interesting to guide Dean into their kisses like this, so Castiel keeps his hand right where it is.

Until the movement of their lips slows as much as their breathing, neither of them turned-on rather than relaxed. Dean slowly pulls away – though not without snatching a few more kisses – and blinks down at a slack-jawed and almost dopey looking Castiel. His lips are swollen with their kisses – and maybe from taking Dean into his mouth before as well – and he looks open and warm and everything Dean could long for.

So, Dean smiles softly, a hopefully hidden thing, turns his face into the hand that has ever left his cheek, is still cupping it, and presses a small kiss to Castiel’s palm.

In the quiet, Dean can hear Castiel’s breath hitch as much as he can feel Castiel’s cock stiffen up that tiny bit more. Yet, Dean doesn’t do anything more than nuzzle his face into Castiel’s hand and close his eyes for a moment.

And takes a deep breath.

Castiel remains quiet and relaxed beneath him, probably just as loosened by satisfaction and intimacy as Dean, and allows Dean to use his one hand however he sees fit, while with the other, he pets one of Dean’s thighs. So slowly that Dean wonders if he is even aware of it.

“Would you like me to bring you some more juice?”

“Yes, please, that would be nice. I mean, I’m, uh, not exactly thirsty right now, but I feel like I’ll be soon.”

“I understand. Would you like anything to eat as well?”

“Nah, thank you. Later on, sure, but right now, I don’t think my body would want that.” He enjoys the quiet sound of his stubble scratching against the palm of Castiel’s hand. “Later on, I’ll probably be hungry.”

“Then I will prepare something for later on soon.”

“Not too soon, though.”

“No, don’t worry. I would rather spend some more time with you now as well. I am far too seldom allowed to enjoy your proximity, especially if you are undressed.” He pointedly runs his hand up and down Dean’s thigh. “If only you were always and everywhere.”

“I am sure Adler wouldn’t terribly appreciate me being naked at the office.”

“I disagree. I am convinced that even Adler couldn’t help but enjoy the sight of your beautiful body. That he would want to touch and kiss you, too.” Castiel murmurs, dragging a line of sloppy kisses down Dean’s shoulder.

Dean wrinkles his nose despite the warmth seeping into his skin. “I sincerely hope you’re wrong.” 

Castiel quietly laughs into his kisses, finishing off his work with a clumsy peck to the conjunction of Dean’s shoulder and arm. “I hope so, too.”

Dean snorts and wiggles in his position, trying to just bathe in the amusement in the air, but the thought of Adler has returned reality and with it the memory of the week and the struggles it bore. “Ah, which reminds me: could you possibly bring me my phone, too? I believe it must still be in your bedroom, on the nightstand or in my pants. I gotta check if anyone messaged me or if Adler has already found some faults with my work again.”

Castiel curls his brow in mild irritation, yet sits up a bit, slinging an arm around Dean’s back to draw Dean back up with him. “Should Adler think it necessary to search for and find any more ‘faults’ in your constantly impeccable work, then I won’t hesitate to point out the faults in his conduct to the Human Ressources Department.”

“Wha– hey, no, it’s fine. Thank you, but I’m used to it. It’s no problem, I swear. I mean, if I mess up, it’s good if there’s someone to tell me, so that I can improve and. Yeah.”

“But you didn’t ‘mess up’, Dean. He is notorious for being pedantic to the point of harassing, as soon as he has the chance to. Not only is it wrong, but unprofessional. And he seems to have waited for an opportune time that he found in my business trip to treat you this way because he knows this is nothing he could have done with me around. That I, as your superior, would usually be there to shield you from him.” Castiel sounds pained again, frustrated and disappointed with himself. Dean shakes his head.

“This wasn’t your fault, and you helped me clean up my me– mistakes.” He gently grinds down a couple of times on Castiel’s cock, not to arouse him but to drive a few pleasant sparks throughout his body and to show him that he means what he says and that they otherwise wouldn’t have ended up in the position they are in now. “But do you mean that? That he is kinda, uhm, out to get me?”

“He might be. But less because of you as a person but you as my personal assistant. He has been at Sandover for almost thirty years and he is furious that I might be able to reach the position of the CEO in a few years instead of him. You are not the first of my assistants that he has tried to sabotage or intimidate, and unfortunately, he has succeeded with many.” Dean is sure that, had Castiel one hand free, he would use it to run it over his face. “You are different, though. Not just because you won’t cower, but also because your work is so good that, beyond irritating you by pointing out harmless mistakes, he couldn’t possibly take advantage of your results to harm either you or me. You are as good as untouchable for him.” He tucks a little strand of Dean’s hair behind his ear. “Which is why he is even more unpleasant to you.”

“I don’t wanna know what might happen if he knew about–” He flushes, unsure of how he wants to phrase this. Because yes, they are in a BDSM arrangement and are play partners, but their small, broken-off conversation and Dean’s own feelings make all of this seem like even more. Like there should be another term they should use, not just colleagues or play partners or whatever else. _Certainly_ not boyfriends, though. Dean is not sure there _is_ a proper word for what they are or what they might be – this state of on the verge of something and yet exactly where they should be. So, what Dean settles with is a simple, “if he knew about us.”

“It might be even more troublesome,” Castiel readily agrees, “and yet, there are no policies at Sandover that would explicitly prohibit fraternization. There have been many colleagues that I know to have entered relationships of different kinds, and though they were frowned upon, they were tolerated. Even if Adler found out that we spend time with each other outside of work hours and within the privacy of our apartments, there should be nothing to worry about.”

“But not always strictly within the privacy of our apartments,” Dean teases, relishing the memory of being laid out and taken apart on the couch in Castiel’s office after a long and draining week.

“That is also true,” Castiel hums amusedly. “We will have to be more careful in the future and not repeat our actions from yesterday. There was already too much risk in what we did, and only because of lucky circumstances have we not been found out. Or that he haven’t been found out is to hope at least. And I need you to tell me should anything like this ever happen again.” He looks serious and displeased. “If Adler takes advantage of any situation or my absence again, please inform me immediately.”

“You don’t need to. I took care of what Adler wanted me to take care of any everything is alright. He didn’t do anything that wouldn’t have been appropriate, so you don’t need to worry.”

“But I do worry. Especially because Adler’s behaviour is not an indicator of your work morale or proficiency, but of his antipathy for me. You took care of it, as much is true. And I am proud for how well you did so. But Adler’s envy shouldn’t have been your burden to bear in the first place.” His voice is strained, but his touch remains gentle. “I ask you to communicate with me, Dean. To allow me to see to the issues that were only mine, but that Adler made yours.”

“That he made _ours,_ huh?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, and the smile that follows his agreement is maybe not one entirely born out of satisfaction for the situation, but camaraderie. Complicity. If Adler throws down the gauntlet, they will damn well pick it up. “And if Adler is _our_ issue now, then we should take care of him together.”

“Alright,” Dean play-sighs, in an attempt to cover up the little thrill that is running through him at the thought of tackling the same issue alongside Castiel. Shoulder to shoulder. “I guess if he keeps me from doing the work I am supposed to do for you, then he is a bother to both of us anyway.”

“He is,“ Castiel agrees, apparently satisfied to just accept this way or reasoning if it means that Dean will go along with him. “Do you want me to bring you your phone now to see if he did indeed message you? Ah, and the juice you wanted. And I need to see which ingredients I have at home and which meal I might be able to prepare with them.”

“Okay,” Dean says, smiling and keeping himself pressed even more against Castiel as he sits up even more, bringing both of them in an almost upright position, with his arm still tightly around Dean’s waist.

Before Dean’s tender cheeks meet with Castiel’s crotch or the couch though, Castiel rolls him to the side and off of him, making sure that the only parts of Dean touching anything are the left side of his body, head and shoulder hips and the length of his left leg. Like this, the sheet also doesn’t brush against Dean’s lotioned up skin, and Dean sighs softly.

“Is this alright, Dean?” Castiel asks, already smiling down at a probably pretty obviously pleased Dean.

“It’s perfect,” Dean reassures warmly. While Castiel’s body is an amazing mixture of soft and firm, the cushion of the sofa is nothing but plush and welcoming, and it’s nice to just let himself sink into it. Especially because Dean knows that he can always call Castiel and his strong body back to him, that he is in Castiel’s apartment, his _home,_ now. So there is no chance of him being left alone once the rush of endorphines fully drops again and only leaves the pain of his ass behind. No, he is safe within Castiel’s space and will soon get more juice and a warm meal, and this just after Castiel has told him that he wants to stay by his side if trouble arises and reassured him of his support. ‘Perfect’ is just the right word for how he feels right now.

“I’m happy to hear that,” Castiel says, sounding like he means it, like he feels just as good as Dean does right now. “Then I will go and get your phone now.” He stands up from the sofa at last, the sheet falling off his body and treating Dean to the impossibly nice view of miles of skin and curves and muscles and that wild bush between his legs that Dean loves to think of whenever he sees Castiel in pressed shirts and pants, looking all prim and proper. Castiel remains still for a moment, letting his own gaze roam over Dean – as if he wasn’t still covered by the sheet – and only snapping back to his face once Dean speaks again.

“Okay,” Dean repeats, cheeks warmed by the sight of Castiel and Castiel’s attempt to catch a glimpse of Dean’s body, too.

“Okay,” Castiel echoes, maybe a bit distracted, until he finally resigns and sighs. He brushes his hand over Dean’s forehead one last time and murmurs, “and you relax in the meantime, my good boy.”

Castiel’s hands only leave Dean once he mumbles out a soft assent of, “Hm-hm.” And although Dean misses Castiel’s touch and warmth as soon as they are gone, the lovely view of Castiel’s retreating figure at least partially makes up for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas to all of you! xx i hope you had/have a lovely few days!  
> and i'll reply to all of your comments on the previous chapter soon, i promise!


End file.
